


Broken Mirrors

by cynical21



Category: Brothers & Sisters
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-09-19
Updated: 2015-09-02
Packaged: 2018-02-18 00:20:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 112,298
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2328413
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cynical21/pseuds/cynical21
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The aftermath of Scotty's cheating, and an homage to the only true love story ever told in this series</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Only Me

**Author's Note:**

> This is a work in progress, and I must warn you: I don't write quickly, I don't do fluff, and I almost never settle for a few words when a few dozen strike my fancy.

_I have gone from rags to riches in the sorrow of the night,_  
 _In the violence of a summer's dream, in the chill of a wintry light,_  
 _In the bitter dance of loneliness fading into space,_  
 _In the broken mirror of innocence on each forgotten face._

_I hear the ancient footsteps like the motion of the sea._  
 _Sometimes I turn, there's someone there, other times it's only me._  
 _I am hanging in the balance of the reality of man,_  
 _Like every sparrow falling, like every grain of sand._

\-- _Every Grain of Sand_ \--- Bob Dylan

Chapter 1: Only Me

 

So, it was done.

He sat for a while and listened to the silence - or actually the not-quite-silence, since there were distant noises from the street as well as the faint creaks and rattles of the building and the whisper of a fretful wind gusting around the eaves, the measured drip of a faucet in the kitchen, and the tick of the clock behind the bar.

He should go. He knew he didn't have much time, because Scotty would not be gone long. He would have dropped Paige off by now, and would be running his regular errands; it might take him an hour or so, but certainly no longer than that. So Kevin knew that he should get moving. But still he sat, his eyes trained on the pages that lay on the table before him, covered with the easy flow of his handwriting.

He had probably written too much, like always. Old habits were ridiculously hard to break. But he already knew that, didn't he? That was rather the point, wasn't it?

Still he continued to sit, staring at the words he'd written, but not really seeing them. Everything was just a blur, and he didn't bother to think about why. These were certainly not the first tears he'd shed since the beginning of this nightmare and would not be the last. But perhaps they were the most honest, since he was still slightly stunned by the epiphany that had overwhelmed him as he'd listened to what his niece had to say.

What he couldn't quite figure out was why he had not seen it before, when it had been so obvious. Then he drew a deep breath, conceding that it had all been a consequence of his own willful blindness. He had not seen, because he had not wished to see.

But the blinders were gone now, had collapsed into dust with the quick, brutally honest comments offered by his niece.

_"Just break up then."_

That had been painful, of course. But it was not the killing blow. It was not the final stroke that stripped away his last defenses to make him see the ugly truth. No. When that final blow had actually been struck, he could not believe how much it had hurt. Not, of course, as much as Scotty's confession; nothing in his life, before or since, had ever caused such agony, and he knew - he actually hoped - that nothing ever would. He'd felt as if he'd been drawn and quartered and gutted when he'd figured out what Scotty was trying to tell him.

This was different, thank God, but it was still . . . He drew a deep breath, trying not to feel it again..

_"Scotty, would you take me home please?"_

Such innocuous words to express such a devastating truth. It was Scotty she'd turned to; it was Scotty she'd sought comfort from.

It was Scotty she could forgive. And it was Kevin who had, in the grip of realization, begun to remember, scene after scene, word after word - the looks on the faces of his family, the unmistakable feeling of being judged - and found wanting.

_"What did he do, Scotty? Tell us why Kevin's in the doghouse."_ That had been Sarah on the very first day.

And _"What could Scotty have done that was so wrong?"_ His mother had been the source for that particular condescending comment, spurring him to cough up an answer that he would forever regret speaking.

_"He told you the truth, Kevin. You have to talk to him."_ His mother again - the voice of reason, of course - finding the good in the man he loved, and making Kevin feel even more guilty for his own failure.

_"He's just worried about you."_ Kitty, finding excuses for conversations between her and Scotty.

_"You aren't the only one with needs, Kevin. He needed you, and you weren't there for him."_ There had been tears in Saul's eyes when he'd spoken those words, and Kevin, of course, had not known what to say in response.

_"Blame everyone else, Kevin. That's what you do, isn't it?"_ Tommy, of course, who had a perfect right to that opinion after the whole Aaron debacle.

_"So you found out that he's not as perfect as you thought he was. So what? Are you?"_ Justin, making a perfectly rational argument.

_"You know, I seem to remember times - plenty of times - when you were the cheater, Kevin. So maybe you should get down off your high horse, hmmm?"_ Sarah again, completely out of patience by this time, and tired of his diva act.

And then there were those other memories - the ones of Scotty's parents, looking at him as if he was single-handedly responsible for every evil thing in their son's life. He had never dreamed that he would one day reach a point at which he might begin to think they were right, but he had, because all of those memories had one thing in common. Every single one of those less-than-pretty comments had been spoken in complete honesty, leaving no room for lies or excuses or doubts, expressing an elementary truth that none of them had quite been willing to verbalize. They had all fallen just short of finding the will or the courage to cross that final line in the sand and speak their minds, leaving it to Kevin to figure it out for himself, which he finally had, leaving him no room to maneuver or evade.

The unavoidable truth was that they were right; they were all right, and it was time for him to man up, to borrow a phrase from Justin, and deal with it. 

He stood quickly and picked up the pages, folding them and shoving them into an envelope on which he scrawled Scotty's name.

Then he raced upstairs, grabbed a duffle bag from the closet, and began to pack. He didn't bother with neatness or precision. He just grabbed the essentials - clothes and toiletries, personal items, and a few things that, for some reason, he could not stand to leave behind, but ultimately, it was only haste that mattered. By the time Scotty returned, he had to be gone.

He took one moment to take a last look around, depositing his bag and his briefcase and laptop by the door. He walked into the bedroom and sat down on the edge of the bed and picked up the tiny ceramic lobster that always had the place of honor on Scotty's bedside table. Sebastian, Scotty had named it, and claimed it as his lucky charm, giving it credit for helping him to win back the man of his dreams - the man he had lost and thought he would never recover. Kevin sighed, and wondered how he would feel about it now. Sebastian might well wind up in the garbage heap. Quickly, lightly, he ran his fingers across the velvety softness of the duvet, lost for a moment in the memories of Scotty in their bed, Scotty in the throes of passion, Scotty's lips locked with his own, Scotty's body clinching around him, welcoming him, consuming him. He hoped that he would be able to hold on to those memories forever - but he doubted it.

Time to go. He stood and walked back into the living room, where he picked up his Liza pillow and stared at it for a moment, smiling as he remembered Scotty's comment that it was the 'gayest' thing he owned. He touched it to his face very gently before replacing it and walking to his desk where he studied the framed photograph of him and his husband - his beautiful, perfect Scotty - on their wedding day, the most unforgettable day of his life. He wanted to take it, more than he'd ever wanted anything, and he almost did, almost tucked it into his bag. But then he realized that he had no right to take it, so he simply extended one finger to stroke that beloved face just once more, before moving away. It would be Scotty who would be the one to decide what should be done with it. It would be Scotty who would remove it from its frame and consign it to a dark drawer filled with fading memories, or a trash can, if he preferred. Scotty's choice - as it should be. From this day forward, he would forfeit any right to make decisions on Scotty's behalf. So there was only one thing left to do; taking a deep breath, he took his key ring out of his pocket and carefully removed his car keys from it. Then he placed the ring that contained all the rest of his keys, including those to the loft, the restaurant, his mother's house, his office - everything, down in the middle of the blotter on his desk, along with the envelope, and a small stack of credit/debit cards that he'd taken from his wallet. On his way out of the building, he would retrieve the documents he needed from his office, in order to complete work on cases that required his specific attention to resolve. Everything else he would refer to another attorney with whom he'd shared work in the past. When that was done, he would be free to cut his last ties to the area and to his past. 

He stepped back then, and took one last look around.

All done, except . . . he leaned forward again and spread his left hand on the desk, looking down and noting how the light from the desk lamp struck a warm glow on the gold of his wedding ring.

For a long moment, he just stood there, lost in memory, lost in regrets, before tugging the ring off and setting it on top of the envelope.

He gathered his things quickly, knowing that any delay might cause him to rethink, to change his mind, and he couldn't afford to do that. He was doing what was right - what Scotty needed him to do. He didn't look back as he walked out of the loft, out of the building, and out of his life.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Scotty bit back a curse as he struggled to unlock the restaurant's main door, juggle a half-dozen canvas bags of fresh produce, and reach the cell phone that was vibrating in his pocket.

He was not much for cursing; usually he left that to Kevin, who was so skilled with verbal blades that he could draw blood with one, spare, perfectly constructed sentence. Although, these days, that thought was not exactly a comfort. Nevertheless, he spared a moment for a wistful smile. The thought of his husband always made him smile, even if - right now - it was a smile that could not camouflage the layer of pain beneath it.

He finally managed to retrieve the phone only to find a text message from Paige. "Pleeeeeeze come over here NOW. Emergency!!!!"

Scotty's smile shifted and became indulgent. She was trying so hard to bring him and his husband back together - so hard that she'd actually been terribly angry with Kevin earlier in the day, when he'd refused to be manipulated into forgiveness. It appeared that all the Walkers had been taking that position - trying to find ways to compel Kevin to forgive him and take him back. And Scotty truly appreciated their desire to help him and their willingness to absolve him. Only the truth was that they didn't understand anything about what was happening here. They could forgive him completely, and they might even convince Kevin to say the words that they wanted him to say and that Scotty wanted to hear, but until it was real, until Kevin found it in his heart to forgive and to trust again, it was just meaningless.

Nevertheless - he glanced at his phone again and was absolutely certain that the same exact message had gone out to Kevin - he would do as she asked. If there was even the slightest chance that her scheme might work, that he might get the opportunity to make his case again and try to get Kevin to listen to him, he had to take it.

But first he had to put away the wonderfully fresh fruit and vegetables he'd obtained at the farmer's market, and then he had to run upstairs to grab a clean shirt. If he was going to confront his recalcitrant husband - again - he was going to do so wearing the periwinkle-striped shirt that was Kevin's favorite. It might provide only a tiny little advantage, but Scotty was going to use every weapon at hand in his fight to win back the man he loved.

He was humming as he put away the tomatoes and peppers, avocados and spinach, plums and nectarines. Then he hurried upstairs.

Had the sun been just a little lower in the sky, or the blinds a bit less open, he would have missed it entirely. As it was, he almost didn't notice it at all, except that he caught the stray glint of sunlight on metal as he moved across the living room, and he paused, looking over toward the clutter on Kevin's desk, to see . . .

He had always believed that the idea of one's heart skipping a beat in a moment of terror was just an old wives' tale, but he learned better in one horrible, never-to-be-forgotten moment.

Initially, he didn't see the keys or the credit cards or the envelope.

He only saw the ring.

He staggered as he crossed the room, almost reeling under the weight of fear in his heart, so that he could only fall into the chair when he finally reached the desk, his knees buckling beneath him.

For a full minute, he simply sat there, staring at the ring. Then he saw the other objects on the desk and was suddenly, horribly aware of the meaning of it all.

Only then did he notice the envelope.

He knew, at that moment, that he had never in his life wanted anything more than to stand up and run away - to never have to see the ugly truth that was waiting for him - and he almost did. Almost.

Then he grabbed the envelope and ripped it open and knew, with the very first words, that his life had changed - forever. 

_My Darling Scotty,_

_I have been sitting here since you left, appalled and horrified by the depth of my ignorance. In my own (ridiculous) defense, I can only say that I never realized how much my family loves and misses you, and how desperately they want and need you back in their lives. But I do finally see it - too little, too late, as I'm sure you'll agree. They've all tried to tell me over these past weeks, but I just wouldn't listen. I was too busy concentrating on me - my feelings and my issues - as usual. But Paige finally got through to me, forcing me to hear what all of them have been trying to say since this whole mess started. I think I couldn't see it because it was easier not to. But nobody should be surprised at that, should they? Running away from ugly truth is what Kevin Walker does best, isn't it?_

_It's hard to admit that I was harboring a childish desire for somebody - even if it was just one person - in my family to express some kind of anger over what you did. I couldn't understand why they all seemed to deal with it so easily, to forgive so quickly what I found impossible to forgive at all. But the simple truth is that I was looking at it from the wrong direction - another habit of a lifetime. The truth is that they weren't angry with you; they were angry with me._

_And they were right. Because, when you strip away all the trivial details, this whole thing wasn't about your one-time hook-up with some douche-bag waiter; it was the result of my own selfish actions, of me being so self-absorbed and caught up in my own emotional turmoil that I turned away from you, leaving you to cope on your own, never once thinking about your pain or your feelings. You needed me, and I couldn't be bothered to be there for you. And I can't even claim that I didn't know. I knew. I just couldn't put my own needs aside to concentrate on yours, which is something you've been doing for me for years._

_And I know that that should be enough for me. That I should be the one begging to be forgiven. Yet I still can't find it in me to trust you - to trust_ us _again, and without trust, nothing else makes a difference, does it?_

_So we come to the hardest part of all - the thing that I can no longer refuse to face. The truth is that I am never going to become the man you need and deserve. That would require a fundamental change in who I am, and we both know I just don't have it in me. My family certainly knows it, and they'll be more than happy to explain if you ask them; they'll tell you exactly who I am and how skilled I've always been at not being there for anyone. I always wanted to believe that the self-absorbed, cynical contrarian was just a role I played, but it's not. It's who I am._

_Now it's time to face the facts, that the only thing preventing you from stepping back into your rightful place among the crazy Walkers is me, so I think the right thing to do is to remove that obstacle._

_You're a beautiful, strong, wonderful man, Scotty, and I know you'll find your way through this dark place, to rebuild your life, and find the man you deserve, the man who'll stand by your side to help you create the life you've earned. I wanted to be that man so desperately that I almost destroyed you in the attempt. We both know that you were never the one of us who wasn't good enough, and now I finally understand that it's laughable that I should be the one to withhold my trust when I never earned yours in the first place. Laughable, but we're not laughing, are we?_

_The family will come to you, demanding answers, because - well, that's what they do, isn't it? I know I'm taking the coward's way out here, which is exactly what they will expect. Not much point in disputing their judgment now, is there? In the end, they're right; I don't want to face them or deal with them any more. Just tell them that I'm not going to drive off a cliff somewhere, or do something equally stupid. Even I am not selfish enough to do that to you, because I know you'd insist on blaming yourself. I just need some space, and the means to find a new direction. I'm so tired of hurting the people I love, and I need to find a place where I won't be able to do that any more._

_I would ask you only to remember this. Throughout this whole, ugly mess, there has never been a single moment when I stopped loving you. I don't think I ever will, but now, I finally see that I have to love you enough to let you go._

_I know this is hard for you, but, when all is said and done, you'll be all right; you'll find a new and better love, and build a new and better life. I'm sorry I couldn't be the one to share it with you, but the only way you're ever going to have what you deserve is for me to walk away._

_And please, Scotty, if you ever loved me at all, let me go. Don't try to find me, because I truly don't want to be found._

_Love,_

_Kevin_

 

He sat there for hours, lost in a darkness he couldn't begin to understand. There were things that needed doing; he was sure of that. Only - what did it matter? Life would go on; the world would spin. The seasons would turn.

He wished he could find it in himself to care, but he couldn't. The only thing he cared about - the only thing that made life worth living - was gone, and he was left here in a world filled with broken memories.

When someone came to the door, he ignored the knock and the insistent voice that called his name over and over again. When the phone rang, he did not answer, and, after three tries, the caller gave up. After that, no one bothered him, and none of it mattered anyway.

Finally, when the sun was long gone and the sound of night wind had risen to a steady moan, he rose and stumbled to the bed he'd shared with his husband - the bed that would be so cold and empty without Kevin to fill it - and curled up there, to weep in silence and try to lose himself in memories of yesterday.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

tbc


	2. Echoes

_Footfalls echo in the memory_  
 _Down the passage which we did not take_  
 _Towards the door we never opened._

\--- T. S. Eliot

Chapter 2 - Echoes

 

He drove first to Big Sur, just because he could. No other reason, except maybe a hunger to see it once more, to savor old memories that he would soon try to lock away in a tight little box that he would never revisit.

He pulled into a narrow parking area atop a cliff that overlooked the shoreline far below, and shut off the engine of his car, prepared to watch the sun sink into the gem-toned depths of the Pacific, far out beyond the foam-frosted curls of towering breakers racing toward the shore.

It was beautiful - almost breathtaking - and it should have soothed his aching heart.

But it didn't.

It had been a very long two days, and he couldn't believe how tired he was. He thought running a marathon would have been easier, although he'd never actually run a marathon before. Still, he'd had no idea that shutting down one life in order to step into another would be so exhausting.

When he'd walked out of the apartment - could it really have been just two days ago - he had intended to simply climb into his Saab and drive. North on Highway 1, of course, following the coast and trying to lose himself in the beauty of the scenery or the wacky complexity of human endeavors. For observation of the latter, there was no place on earth as perfect as the California coast.

Luckily, the pragmatic part of his mind - the part he always identified as his 'lawyer side' - had kicked in and over-ruled his irrational, emotional alter-ego and clamped down on that impulse. If it hadn't, if he'd given in to that urge, he realized that he would simply have been forced to turn around and reverse his course, in order to take care of the practical details that had to be handled before he could actually cut the ties that bound him to his old life. It could not be done haphazardly or remotely, lest he risk losing the advantage of anonymity once it was all done.

He hadn't really felt like dealing with things like bank accounts and insurance policies and deed transfers and case files, but he'd buckled down and forced himself to concentrate on the task at hand in order to avoid the unthinkable - the necessity for going back, for that, he knew, would have been disastrous. He understood that, for, if nothing else, Kevin Walker knew his own weaknesses.

Strangely, he was not nearly as well acquainted with his own strengths - would have even gone so far as to deny having any, if pressed, which would have come as a huge surprise to the family members, friends, business associates, acquaintances, and clients who had relied on him so heavily over the years.

But the weaknesses, he knew. One weakness, in particular.

He was doing the right thing; he'd thought it and rethought it, considered and reconsidered, and come to the same conclusion every single time. After weighing all the pros and cons, he'd realized that he had been fooling himself for years. That it would end like this had always been inevitable; he had been foolish to believe differently.

It was almost easier now that he had stopped running from the truth. He could do this - must do this. But his strength, his determination was contingent on one condition. He could not weaken and do what his treacherous heart had been compelling him to do since that last moment when he'd stood in the doorway and taken one last look at the framework that had been his life.

He could not see Scotty again. He was, he hoped, tough enough to withstand all the other impossible things that he would have to endure - but not that.

He got out of the car as the dying light of the day softened to a twilight hue, and paused to stroke the sleekness of the deep blue finish of the Saab's fender, sighing and quickly lifting one hand to rub at his eyes with thumb and forefinger. He had, he thought, spent too much time crying like a scared little girl lately; he would not cry over the prospect of losing a car.

But he could not deny that he loved this car. Losing it was nothing, of course, compared to losing the life he'd lived with the man he loved, but it was just one more familiar thing that would soon be gone - a thing that he'd bought as a consolation for a much, much greater loss.

But that was a thought he was not ready to have; not yet.

He'd been driving Saabs through most of his adult life, barring one disastrous experiment with an alternative make which had ended in blood and broken glass and bottomless, infinite trauma on a California highway. His loyalty to the Swedish manufacturer had started with the very first car he'd ever bought for himself, when he was still a junior associate at a prestigious LA law firm. Economic circumstances had forced him then to settle for one that had seen much better days in the eleven years of its history. But he'd progressed rapidly in his profession, and within two years, the battered old sedan had been traded in for a sleek, polished chrome-gilded convertible. The style had changed over the years, as his position in the firm and in life had fluctuated, but the brand had remained the same.

And the blue convertible - nocturne blue, according to a very eager salesman (with an adorably perky bubble butt) - had been his reward to himself, for surviving, although now, he wasn't certain that he'd earned it. He wasn't sure any more that he'd actually survived, because he was no longer confidant that he was the same man he'd once been.

Still, the car had to go, and, in a day or two - once he'd settled on his ultimate destination and determined what he would do to rebuild some alternative version of his life - he'd do what needed doing. Plus, there was the added incentive that it would bring a nice little chunk of change, which might come in handy in the process of remodeling his existence.

Regardless, it had to be done, just like everything else he'd done these past two days. Luckily, he hadn't had to invest too much detailed thought or effort into determining how to proceed. He'd learned to think logically, in a clear linear fashion, in practicing his profession, so all the little decisions had come to him easily, without a lot of unnecessary dithering or uncertainty.

He'd known what needed doing, and he'd done it. No point in gnashing his teeth and wringing his hands over it now.

In his letter, he had asked Scotty not to look for him, but he doubted that his husband would listen. In his own way, Scotty could be unexpectedly stubborn, even willful. And even if he did do as he was asked, there would be others who wouldn't go along with it - would, in fact, be outraged even to be asked.

The Walker family was like an ultra-potent, uber-condensed version of the CIA, and they would stop at nothing to find whatever they happened to be seeking at any given time. Kitty would remember - and use - every contact, every inside source, both in and out of the government, to conduct her search, up to and including the vast multi-generational sprawl of the McAllister clan, and Nora - Nora would become an irresistible force of nature in attempting to locate - and lasso - a missing family member. Sarah too would use every resource available to her, employing a crew of researchers from the vast work force she had at her disposal, inquiring and working discreetly when possible but with all the aplomb of a bulldozer when necessary.

Together, they would be as relentless as the armed forces of a world power. Both of his sisters would utilize logic and dogged determination - and money; it wouldn't do to discount the power of money. His mother, on the other hand, might be the most dangerous of them all, for she would disdain pragmatism and go, instead, with intuitive leaps, and no one had ever been able to explain how Nora Walker could progress from Point A to Point B, usually in an incredibly short period of time, while appearing to travel in wild looping spirals without pattern or logic. Most people thought in straight lines, but Nora's brain functioned in sequences more complex than a fluctuating double helix.

Thus, he could not afford to make mistakes or leave anything to chance.

He looked out toward the West, watching the sun touch the horizon and bleed out into the ocean's reflection in Jackson Pollock-style patterns of copper and scarlet and acid green, and allowed himself a small smile. Of all his family, only Tommy - who would not have the resources anyway - and Justin, who might - just might - understand why his older sibling felt compelled to do what he was doing, would pose no serious threat to him. Brotherly support - even if gained through such a convoluted process - was not something he'd experienced much of in his life, but he was grateful for the prospect.

_Robert would have understood_.

Yes, of course he would. Although he'd have argued, vehemently. Probably yelled a lot, growling like a dog fighting over a bone and calling on that trademark rapier wit in an attempt to manipulate the opposition into seeing things his way - or browbeat them into submission, whichever came first or easiest.

But . . .

No. Not time yet to think of that. He should drive away, before it was completely dark, and go and find some cozy little refuge where he could drink - and sleep - and drink - and not think too much - and drink.

Only . . . now he had made that one tiny little mistake, opened up that one tiny little crack in a door that should have remained firmly closed, all the weight of unforgotten yesterdays, of what should have been but never would be, and of all the lost tomorrows was out there, pushing, demanding, refusing to go away, shoving its way into his mind..

Once more, he ran a hand across the cool, slick patina of the car and noticed the contrast between the reality of here and now and the tactile impact of moments dredged up from the past, and fell to his knees under the massive bulk of irresistible memory.

He tried to convince himself that he should get up; it wasn't exactly dignified to be crouching on his knees, huddled up against the side of his vehicle like a weeping child, but then - did it really matter? There was no one to see him. He shifted slightly, so that his face was pressed against the car door, and noticed a smudge that was dulling the rich blue finish. When he lifted his hand to wipe it away, he caught a glimpse of his reflection in the polished surface, etched against the dying light of the day - and froze as a particular memory flashed into his mind. Scotty had laughed at him, accusing him of choosing the color of the car to match the color of his eyes - the "bluest blue of _any_ blue, _ever_ ", according to his husband. It had been said with so much love, so much affection, and he knew that his eyes had grown even bluer in that moment, shining like sapphires, reflecting his own joy in knowing himself so treasured, so adored.

Only they weren't so blue any more. He didn't even like looking into a mirror these days, because that deep, startling blue was just not there any more. It had faded away under the flat gray shadows of lost hope.

He sat there for hours, empty and aching and alone, floundering in memories that refused to be silenced. 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

He had hoped to put it off for a while longer, but knew as he came down the stairs and saw the individuals assembled at the table, obviously waiting for him, that he'd been damned lucky to make it even this far. The Walkers did not, after all, respond well to being ignored.

He wasn't sure that he could get through this, but understood that he was not going to be given a choice. Nora had mustered the troops, and they were all present and geared up. Except for Tommy, of course, who was in Seattle, but Scotty was certain that he had been called and regaled about the latest developments in the Walker/Wandell household.

He supposed he should have been warm and welcoming, especially given that every member of the family had gone the extra mile to make him feel that his transgression had been forgiven - that they were all perfectly willing to grant him absolution and encourage his husband to stop sulking and do the same. But somehow, he just couldn't quite bring himself to behave as the charming host and see to everyone's creature comforts. For once, he would leave it to Saul to assume the role, which would come naturally to him since he was part owner of the restaurant.

Café 429 had enjoyed another successful night. In truth, there were no unsuccessful nights any more; the place was always crowded, and most of the regulars, of whom there were many, expressed their appreciation volubly by conveying their compliments to the chef on a regular basis. Although Scotty did not feel that he had earned those raves tonight. For some reason, he had decided to do a bit of improvising on this occasion, and try out a new recipe for Velvet Corn Soup with Crab and Shrimp, and it had not turned out as well as he'd hoped.

He had intended that it should be incredibly good - so perfect that the patrons would be blown away by it. But it wasn't, and he didn't know why it bothered him so much. He took a seat at the table and, for one brief moment, buried his face in his hands. It wasn't true that he didn't know why; it bothered him because it was the kind of thing that Kevin would have loved - should have loved - and his absence made the entire question moot. The premier food critic of the _LA Times_ could have written a rave review about it, and it wouldn't have mattered in the least.

Nothing seemed to matter much right now, including whether or not his in-laws were as involved in his private life as they thought they should be.

He took a moment to look around the restaurant and be grateful that the staff had done their usual excellent job of cleaning it up. He was exhausted and wanted nothing more than to make his way upstairs and fall into his bed where he might be lucky enough to fall asleep without lying there stiff and aching and listening to the sound of his solitude for most of the night.

"Scotty," said Nora, very gently, "we know this is a terrible time, but . . ."

"Yes," he agreed. "It's actually just about as terrible as it could be, but that doesn't usually stop you guys from barging right on in, so just . . . speak your piece so we can get this over with."

"Wow!" said Sarah. "Somebody's cranky. That's not like you, Scotty." Then she smiled. "It's usually Kevin that's the king of snark. Or should I say queen?"

Scotty looked up then and caught the glances exchanged between Sarah and Kitty - glances that included quick, slightly smug smiles which seemed to suggest that the two of them knew Kevin better than anyone, and were entitled to the snide little commentary that so often crept into any remarks about their middle brother.

Scotty opened his mouth to offer a less than patient response but, to his surprise, Justin beat him to it. "Come on, Sarah. That's not fair. I mean, I know he's gay, and I get a kick out of teasing him about it - which, by the way, he always takes with a good-natured smile - but the truth is that I've never really known Kevin to 'queen out' over anything."

"Okay," replied Kitty with her own slightly condescending little smile, "you might be right. But he's really going a little over the top here, don't you think? I mean I haven't seen him in a couple of days, and he's not returning calls or anything, so I have to assume that he's off sulking somewhere. But isn't it time for him to suck it up and just let it go?"

"Oh, Kitty," said Nora with a sigh, "you know that Kevin's always been sensitive, so this - this is hard for him. I mean, he'll come around sooner or later, but I don't think I need to remind you guys how long it took him to handle the whole Aaron mess, so we just need to be patient. I'm sure he'll be fine if we just give him a little time. But we do need to know where he is, and how to reach him. Just in case we need him, for whatever reason. So Scotty, if you could just . . ."

"No," he said quickly, "I couldn't, and - just so you know - he actually never did get over the 'whole Aaron mess'."

"Well, that's just silly." Sarah was obviously not in the right frame of mind for exercising patience. "It's late, and we've all had long days, and I had to leave Luc at home with the kids to come over here, so you need to tell us how to reach him so we can make him understand how foolish he's being, so things can get back to normal."

Scotty simply sat and stared at her for a moment, noting that she had barely avoided rolling her eyes to express her irritation. Then he turned his gaze to the other members of the family enclave, and found similar expressions on each of their faces, with the single exception of Justin. Even Saul looked slightly annoyed, although Scotty figured that might be due to weariness brought on by Scotty's failure to perform adequately in the kitchen tonight.

Still, he wondered if any of them had engaged in any kind of deep reflection over how they felt about what had happened between him and his husband.

"You know," he said slowly, "I talked to my father this morning."

"Oh!" said Saul, eyes narrowing. "Is this the first time since . . ."

"Since I cheated on my husband?" Scotty finished the sentence for his business partner, his voice hard and sharp, and causing everyone around him to flinch away from his tone. "Yes, it was."

"That must have been difficult for you," said Nora gently.

Scotty favored her with a strange, bittersweet smile. "Actually, not as difficult as you might think."

"Meaning?" Kitty was obviously not in the mood for subtlety.

"Meaning that I told him the whole story - what happened, why it happened, what I did. And you know what? After he listened to the whole ugly story, he told me that he knew it must have been awful for me, to be treated like that. That he knew I never would have done such a thing if I hadn't been driven to it, and that I should forgive myself. That Kevin needed to accept responsibility for driving me into someone else's arms."

"Well," said Saul, "that must have been comforting for you. I mean, he's your dad, so you have a right to expect him to take your side, you know. It's only natural."

Scotty looked up then, and something cold glinted in his eyes as he looked at each one of them in turn. "Yeah," he said finally. "I know. But I've gotta tell you that you've wasted your time coming over here to convince me to tell you how to find Kevin. Because I don't know how to find Kevin. He made sure of that. And he was very specific about not wanting anyone to look for him."

This time Sarah didn't bother to suppress the impulse to roll her eyes. "And you don't think he's queening out? This is classic Kevin, making a bid to grab everyone's attention and get us all to feel sorry for him. In a day or two, when he sees it's not going to work, he'll come dragging back home with his tail between his legs."

But Scotty was shaking his head. "No, Sarah, I don't think so."

"Well, I do think so, so would you like to make a bet?"

"Well, I could do that, since I can certainly afford it." He paused and placed a large legal-size envelope on the table before him, bearing a certified label. "This has been a truly memorable day for me - a day of revelations. For example, this morning I found my husband's cell phone in his office, and when I called the phone company to find out if he'd gotten a new one, they told me he'd canceled his service. Then, when I went to the bank to check on our accounts, since I realized that Kevin had left all his debit and credit cards on his desk upstairs, I found that he went in yesterday and removed his name from our joint accounts. Furthermore, he removed $200,000 - in cash - from the investment fund that he opened with his Ojai/Narrow Lake money, and transferred the rest of it into a CD in my name. And today, I received this envelope in which I found legal documents transferring all his interest in this restaurant, this building, insurance policies - everything we own together - to me alone.

"He also cleaned out his office files and turned over all his active cases to another attorney."

The silence in the room was suddenly deafening. "So you see, Sarah, Kitty - everybody - I don't think he's just gone off somewhere to sulk for a day or two. He's gone, and I don't know that he's ever . . ."

"But that doesn't make any sense," said Nora when she realized that he was unable to continue, her eyes huge now and glistening with unshed tears. "Why would he do that? Why would he go and leave everything - everyone behind?"

Scotty found that he couldn't look at her. "Good question."

"Scotty," said Saul hesitantly, "do you know? Did he tell you why?"

"Yes. He did." Scotty's reply was little more than a whisper.

"Then why, for God's sake?" That was Sarah, of course, impatient with his reticence. "You have to tell us . . ."

"No," he said, speaking clearly again and meeting her eyes with a look that told her that he was not prepared to have his decision challenged. "I can't tell you. Because if he'd wanted you to know, he'd have told you himself. Now I know that goes against every, single word of the Walker operating manual, but I'm not going to betray his trust." The word "again" hung in the air around him like a spectral memory - unspoken but perfectly clear. "I think there's been quite enough of that already. Don't you?"

"And what is that supposed to mean?" Kitty's patience was apparently nearing exhaustion, putting her firmly in the same camp as her sister.

But Scotty wasn't in the mood for getting into one of the infamous games of emotional chess that the Walkers indulged in so frequently. "You figure it out."

Sarah rose and slung her Hermès handbag over her shoulder and fixed Scotty with a cold stare, and somewhere in the back of his mind a little voice whispered that the expression had been a long time coming. "Well, that's just completely unacceptable," she announced in her best Sarah-Walker-professional voice. "And if either one of you thinks that he can just walk away from us - from the family that's always been there for him - you've both got another think coming, because I can promise you that we're going to find him. This is just . . . bullshit, and Kevin should know better. Nobody just walks away from this family."

Scotty shrugged lightly. "Oh, I don't know, Sarah. Tommy made a pretty good stab at it, once upon a time."

It was Kitty who responded, with a small cat-in-cream smile. "Yeah, but in the end, we found him, didn't we?"

Scotty was prepared to answer, but Justin beat him to it. "Actually, Kitty, it was Robert who found him, and I don't think any of us have the clout to call in favors from the CIA. Do you?"

"Yeah, well, we'll just see about that." That was Sarah again, obviously not any more pleased with her baby brother than with any other member of the male gender currently present. "Money talks, you know. Maybe not quite as loudly as political pressure, but I don't think Kevin is going to be able to hide from any determined effort to find him."

To the surprise of everyone, Scotty chuckled softly. "You know what I think, Sarah? I think that you've forgotten exactly how smart your brother is, always assuming that you ever knew in the first place."

The only response to that was a heavy, shocked silence.

With a weary sigh, he looked around at all the faces - Walker faces - that were gazing at him, eyes filled with compassion even in this moment of anger, and saw clearly that they supported him; they all supported him and were eager to come to his defense and do everything possible to give him what he wanted and help him regain that idyllic life he'd once lived . . . before the accident, before the miscarriage . . . before Marcus. And suddenly the room around him seemed to shift into some bizarre alternative reality that he couldn't quite comprehend, and he was very, very cold.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~  
tbc


	3. Empty Dreams

Chapter 3: Empty Dreams

 

_But my dreams,_  
_They aren't as empty_  
_As my conscience seems to be._

_No one knows what it's like_  
_To be the bad man,_  
_To be the sad man_  
_Behind blue eyes._

\-- _Behind Blue Eyes_ \-- Pete Townshend

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Over the last year, he'd given it many names, most of them admittedly cliché, but appropriate nevertheless: the beginning of the end, the day the earth stood still, the end of the world. All were, of course, ultra dramatic and over-stated, but, beneath the gross hyperbole, all were fundamentally accurate.

He just wished - in some ways - that he remembered it as it had actually happened, rather than the befuddled collage of broken images that always sprang to mind when he tried to recall it. Which he didn't very often, because he didn't really want to remember it - not that he wished to dispose of the memory, but rather that he wished it had never happened at all.

What would it be like? How would their lives have been different, if only . . . but there was no point in going down that particular road. It was what it was.

The Walker-family Armageddon. Probably the best name of them all.

He sat amid the rock fragments and limestone dust of the overlook with his back braced against the car, watching the sun bury itself in the Pacific as he let the memories take him, knowing that this was something he needed to do - something he'd needed for a very long time but deliberately avoided in a vain hope that he could just continue to run away from it until it was so far in the past, so dim and distant, that recall would no longer be possible.

Fat chance.

In all this time, it had never been further away than the next heartbeat, or the next breath - the one that would catch in his throat and send him back into those toxic visions of chaos.

_Some part of his mind must have been aware of the reality of the moment when he'd managed to free himself from the death grip of his seatbelt and crawl out through the broken driver's window, emerging into the fractured darkness, with shards of glass embedded in his skin and blood filling his hands; some part must have retained the certainty that he was Kevin Walker, the 39-year-old son of William and Nora, brother of Sarah and Kitty and Tommy and Justin, nephew of Saul, and - most vitally important of all - husband of Scotty. But only one part; the other part - prevalent in those first bizarre moments - reverted to Kevin Walker - thirteen-years-old, traumatized, frightened, crawling out of the remains of a crumpled and mangled '79 Impala and trying to remember where he was and what had happened. His hands had been bloody then too, and he hadn't been able to see very well due to the swelling over his left eye and the blood dripping into it._

_Saul. He remembered that he had been with . . . his father and Tommy? . . . and Saul, maybe. Yes, Saul had been at his side, trying to protect him. And as the chaos erupted all through the growing darkness, shouts and screams and lights spinning and tires squealing and figures rushing by, many stumbling away from the danger, but some racing toward it, with panicked voices providing a high-pitched descant to accent the stentorian roar of pandemonium. Through it all, he only knew that he had to find Saul. Someone else was there reaching for him, touching him - blonde, pretty . . . familiar . . . calling him by name, but . . . he had to find Saul. Saul had been protecting him, talking to him, trying to free him from the steel embrace of the seatbelt and . . ._

 _Fire was raging just at the edge of the road, on the other side of the . . . where was the Impala? And he could see - that couldn't really be his mother and Sarah, could it? Neither one of them was supposed to be here. But his father and Tommy must be somewhere nearby. They had to be, but . . . he must be imagining; he must be . . . but there. There was Saul, just where he should be - looking older, but that was just the blood and the bruising and . . ._

_"Uncle Saul, are you all right? Here. Let me . . ."_

_"No. Don't touch me." And there was something there in Saul's eyes; something that had never been there before. "You can't."_

_And the traumatic memory from his boyhood flexed, and was gone, and he was back in the present again - grown up, but confused. And still terrified. Kevin stared at his uncle, grief-stricken and not knowing what to say. But then, his mind cleared suddenly and even his concern for the man who'd been there throughout his life was not enough to hold him in place, for there was one that mattered more - one he had to find._

_He was vaguely aware of Justin racing by, of Rebecca sobbing hysterically, of Nora and Sarah and Saul and dozens of strangers caught up in their own versions of tragedy, but most of all, he could only count the one who wasn't there, who should have been the first to . . . and then, there he was, bowed, hurt, but not lost. Thank God, not lost._

_Kevin raced forward and Scotty's arms closed around him, and he was engulfed in a familiar scent, as that beloved voice murmured his name, and offered up a litany of soft words. "I couldn't find you. Oh, God, Kevin, I thought I'd lost you. I was so scared, so scared. Please, don't ever, don't ever leave me again. Please . . ."_

_"I'm so sorry, Baby," he whispered. "I was . . . I don't know. I must have been in shock. Everything just went . . . weird and dark. So dark, without you. I wouldn't have left you. You have to know that. I'll never leave you. Never."_

_He had meant every word, but, even today when he thought about the events of that night, he could recall an odd sense of cold shadows looming nearby, as if some premonition was waiting for them, stalking them, even then._

_Later, he would wonder if he had really understood what was happening around them at that moment, if he'd really known that the world they'd all shared in such happy oblivion had just come crashing down around their ears, never to be restored to its former glory, or if that had all come later, as if he'd gone back and adjusted the memory to fit the developing reality. He didn't think he'd ever know for sure, but nevertheless, he was certain of one thing: for that one brief moment - safely sheltered in Scotty's arms, with those sweet, soft lips brushing against his own, tasting him, nuzzling at his skin - nothing else had mattered. He was safe; they were safe - and both had believed that nothing could ever hurt either one of them as long as they stood together._

_It wasn't true, of course, and they'd learned it almost immediately, feeling the optimistic certainty slip through their fingers even as Kevin turned to ask about Robert and knew the truth simply by reading the pain in Justin's eyes. But they had shared something in that strange savage place, something that no one else had been privileged to touch - their moment. Their refuge against the world._

He had meant to make it last forever. In reality, it had lasted only a few short months, before he'd screwed it all up. Before he'd forgotten his pledge to never again leave Scotty alone, and Scotty, lost and needing consolation, had been forced to seek solace elsewhere. Just months, for the seed was already in the ground, waiting to sprout.

That day - that fateful day - had been the beginning, when they had stood on the cusp of darkness and been slowly engulfed, forgetting how to find their way back to the light. It had begun that day, but it had extended through every day that followed, growing and flexing its muscles with every passing hour.

And he . . . what had he done? He'd simply stood there, and let it happen.

Feeling a breath of cool wind tugging at his collar and sending a chill down his back, he stood and brushed dust off his jeans and moved toward the metal barrier that stood guard against careless steps by the unwary. It was a very long way down, and, for a moment, he just stood and stared into the shadows below - seeing nothing, but remembering everything.

It would be comforting to believe that he'd been helpless to change what happened or to prevent the final outcome, but he knew better. He could have done something; he could have stood up and acted like a man instead of cringing away from reality like a pathetic little child, looking for someone to step in and make it all better. Why couldn't he have been the one to make it better? Why, when push came to shove, had he always been the one that needed saving? Why had he simply stood by and watched Scotty sink into a morass of regret and loneliness? Why hadn't he . . .

He stood motionless, a dark silhouette against darkening skies, and let memory take him back.

_He tried to be brave, or - at least - to act that way. When everything was sorted out and the accident site cleared sufficiently so that everyone could be transported to the hospital, he donned his lawyer-face - the professional persona that allowed him to see to the legal and practical issues of the moment and to be able to push with authority when asking nicely just wasn't getting the job done. Occasionally, having eyes that were capable of a cold, hard, icy glitter and a jaw line that could set like stone when he was running out of patience could be a huge asset, especially when a deft, firm hand was required to deal with either idiocy or incompetence. That night, he encountered plenty of both and handled it all efficiently, digging deep to find the courage to swallow the fear that was eating him alive as he watched his sister fight to avoid accepting the inevitable. He didn't want to believe it, any more than she did, but he discovered that there was something worse than the prospect of watching Robert die, and that was the prospect of watching him lie there in that bed alive but . . . missing. Robert was gone; his friend, his brother in everything except blood, had died on that highway, and now . . . now someone had to be there to help Kitty live through it. Someone had to see to the urgency of this moment and provide temporary shielding from the ugly realities she'd have to face later._

_Though it was true that Kevin no longer possessed the bona fide credentials of his former position as communications director of Robert McCallister, Republican Senator from the Golden State of California, he had forgotten nothing about how to organize around the media circus that followed the man everywhere he went. Even when he was lying comatose in a trauma unit; even when he was never going to give another congressional speech, or introduce another Senate bill, or embark on another campaign trip. Even when he was never going to open his eyes again._

_Kevin didn't want to know that, but he knew it just the same._

_But it was his job - salaried or not - to make sure that nobody else knew it before the time was right for the whole story to be told - not because he was employed to do so but because he was the one who could handle the job when no one else could. So he did what he always tried to do, in the face of crisis. He stood between his family, struggling through a period of extreme vulnerability, and anyone who might try to take advantage of them. He fielded questions from the press, from government agencies and officials and the police, from Robert's colleagues and acquaintances. He was the person who informed the McCallister family of what had happened, figuring - correctly - that it would be easier to hear it from a personal acquaintance than from some faceless police officer. He called Jason himself, and managed - somehow - to recite the details of what had happened to Robert without breaking down in helpless sobs, although he had to fight very hard to speak around the lump in his throat. He even managed to speak calmly to Robert's Uncle Jack - the infamous Major Wiener - and to hold on to his temper when the nasty-minded old curmudgeon snarled at him and launched into an ugly recitation of his opinion of Kevin's breeding - or lack thereof. It was, of course, just a mindless, fight-or-flight response to a devastating sucker-punch of a tragedy, but that didn't make it hurt any less._

_He dealt with the hospital authorities and untangled miles of red tape while making sure that everyone received the medical attention they needed. While Robert and Holly were the only two of the family group with major injuries, everyone who had been involved in the accident had been impacted in some way. By virtue of sheer luck - random chance - both his mother and Sarah had escaped any substantial physical trauma, but both were victims of shock and emotional stress, and Rebecca, who had arrived on the scene after the fact, was just as traumatized. Justin, meanwhile, was dealing with a huge burden of guilt, having been forced to choose between staying with Robert at the scene of the accident, or going to Holly's aid. He had done the right thing; he knew it; they all knew it. But knowing had not been enough to absolve him when he felt Kitty staring at him, her eyes full of questions that she never quite dared to ask. Kevin tried to offer his youngest brother the solace that he obviously needed, but he knew that he was not the right person to provide it._

_So he tried to be the rock throughout that interminable night, taking care of his husband first, making sure that Scotty was x-rayed and checked thoroughly and pronounced concussion-free, albeit badly bruised and lacerated, and then settling him into a quiet corner to rest and await developments. Beyond that, he set about offering whatever anyone else might need - a shoulder to cry on, a calm voice, reassurance, practical advice, endless cups of coffee accompanied by words of encouragement, while insisting on prompt and comprehensive medical treatment for all of them. He tried his best to be whatever they needed him to be, but he knew he was falling short. He could see it in their eyes. Though Scotty and Saul and Kitty were all examined and treated and bandaged, they still looked lost and discouraged, while Nora, Sarah, and Rebecca received soothing counseling by professionals who were accustomed to dealing with such levels of trauma, but again, nothing seemed to help much._

_After what seemed like hours, everything finally began to settle down, and they were all - save Kitty - seated in the ICU waiting room, each lost in his own thoughts and filled with fear while awaiting word on Robert and Holly. At that point, life seemed to be regaining some measure of normalcy, and Kevin decided to take a little time to catch his breath. He sat and sipped at a cup of really bad coffee in an attempt to ward off an urge to close his eyes and sleep forever; then he took advantage of the momentary lull to study the faces of his companions. It was only then that he realized how vain all his efforts had been. Though he'd done his best, the pain in the faces of his loved ones made it very clear that he had failed to make any substantial difference. Both Justin and Rebecca were still devastated, avoiding each other and everyone else. Nora, Sarah, and Saul were huddled together, pale and exhausted and trying to adjust to the way reality had shifted around them, but not making much progress. And Scotty - Scotty was the most devastated of all, looking lost and isolated and refusing to respond to Kevin's efforts to comfort him. In addition, David arrived and his deep, intense grief was compounded by the irrational anger of a man who knew he could not logically blame anyone for what had happened, but needed to do so anyway._

_Kevin was just debating whether or not to insist that Scotty needed a fresh dose of painkiller and thinking that he'd never felt more defeated or more useless in his life, when Kitty came through the entrance and walked toward them, stumbling with exhaustion and obviously not completely conscious of where she was or what she was doing. She moved blindly, as if groping through darkness, yet she somehow managed to find her way instinctively to where she needed to be, coming to a stop directly in front of Kevin, so consumed with grief and pain that she couldn't even speak. She had bypassed both her mother and her sister as she'd moved forward, leaving both of them open-mouthed and slightly offended over being ignored, and avoided Justin entirely. When Kevin stood up and took her into his arms, she simply collapsed against him and went as limp and boneless as a rag doll. He sank to his knees, holding her close and smoothing her hair back from her face, and for a while, there was only the sound of her ragged breathing and his murmured whispers of comfort. Until she sat up abruptly and touched his hand with her fingers, her eyes growing huge and filling with fresh tears, for - despite her desolation - she was the one who noticed what no one else had seen; Kevin's hands were still torn and bleeding, and his shirt was damp and dark with blood._

_From that moment on, the situation morphed into a typical Walker debacle. Nora, of course, raised a huge fuss, ranting at everyone in the room, not to mention the entire hospital staff, for overlooking her son's injuries, somehow managing to ignore the fact that she had been just as oblivious as everyone else . At the same time, Justin managed, to look even guiltier than before, despite Kevin's assurances that it wasn't really as bad as it looked._

_But it was the expression in Scotty's eyes that finally served to silence Kevin's protests, when he realized that his husband was in too much pain - physical and emotional - and too exhausted to have to deal with any additional trauma. At that point, Kevin began to feel stupid and inept, realizing that all his efforts to make things better had been in vain. He'd accomplished exactly nothing._

_Once more, Scotty was disappointed in him, even though he would never admit it, probably assuming that Kevin had been so busy worrying about the Walkers and their immediate concerns - as usual - that he'd neglected his own injuries and forgotten all about whatever needs his husband might have._

_They had stitched up his hands, a five-inch gash on his bicep, and another near the nape of his neck, put him in a neck brace to facilitate healing of a broken clavicle, and dosed him with painkillers to compensate for the discomfort from hairline fractures in two ribs, before deciding to release him rather than keep him overnight for observation. At that point, some time after three in the morning, exhausted and dead on his feet, he wandered out into the waiting room only to find that one of Robert's staffers had been delegated to drive him home. Kitty was with Robert, of course, just as she should be, and Justin and Rebecca were with Holly, he supposed. Everyone else had gone. He felt a little guilty then, realizing that he hadn't spent much time worrying about Holly's condition. He always tried to be honest with himself, even if he wasn't always honest with everyone else, and he conceded that he had never completely forgiven Holly for what she had done to his mother and his family._

_Still, he hoped she would be all right, for Rebecca's sake if nothing else._

_But for that night, there was nothing more that he could do. In fact, in reviewing the night, he hadn't managed to do much to begin with. It was just time to go. He thought he'd never been so tired in his life._

_He dozed on the drive home, knowing that he'd have to face the new day in just a few hours and make arrangements to replace his car and enter insurance claims and take care of the thousands of other details that always accompanied such tragic accidents. But for the moment, he chose to ignore his worries, hoping to find some kind of solace in the arms of his husband. But alas, it was not to be._

_When he opened the door to their flat, everything was silent, and there was a note on the coffee table, informing him that Saul, noting that Scotty was in a lot of pain when they'd arrived home, had dosed him up with a hefty measure of prescription painkiller, so he should be out for the night._

_Fearing that he might be restless and disturb his husband's sleep, Kevin settled himself on the sofa and watched the clock as the hours passed._

_And from there . . ._

He sighed and leaned over the railing to gaze at the rough meringue of waves breaking far below him. From there, to say that everything had gone downhill seemed a massive understatement.

He climbed back in his car, knowing that it was time to go - that it was actually past time. Still, he couldn't help but shake his head when he switched on the ignition, and the CD player soared to life, instantly engulfing him in a song that had long been a favorite, with the perfect voice of Idina Menzel providing the words that were like a taunt thrown in his face by some vengeful God.

_And if it turns out_  
_It's over too fast,_  
_I'll make ev'ry last moment last_  
_As long as you're mine.*_

He squared his shoulders as he put the car in gear and pulled out onto the highway, resolutely refusing to acknowledge the irony of the song's message and the statement it seemed to be making about his life.

God knows, if he allowed himself to start weeping over _Wicked_ lyrics, he might as well just turn around and drive right off that cliff - something he had promised he would not do. But he couldn't deny that he was tempted.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

It was good, thought Saul, that the restaurant had been busy. These days, busy was always good, because not busy was . . . well, it didn't really bear thinking about, because not busy equated to time after time after time of him walking into the kitchen to find Scotty gazing off into nothingness. Not distracted, not lost in thought, not pensive or brooding. Just . . . not there.

Saul allowed himself a bit of venting by slamming his laptop cover just a little harder than necessary, thinking that what he'd really like to slam would be his nephew's head against a wall. What on earth could Kevin be thinking to do this? When had he stopped being the sweet, generous boy with the tender heart and the lovely spirit, who would give freely of himself to anyone who needed help, and become this selfish, blatantly callous man who could inflict so much pain on one who loved him beyond all reason?

And when he came back, Saul planned to tell him exactly what he thought of him. When he came back; he never allowed himself to substitute the word 'if'. Because that just wasn't possible. Kevin would come back, because the alternative was unthinkable. And when he did, oh, boy, would he ever have some groveling to do before daring to ask for any small measure of forgiveness. The whole family was looking forward to making him work for it.

Saul looked up then and saw Scotty standing near the window, gazing out into the darkness, and felt . . . well, he wasn't sure what he felt; he was only sure he didn't enjoy it, so he would think about something else.

Scotty had performed well tonight, managing to charm a visiting critic from a major international culinary magazine with his newly perfected version of a lobster and sea bass paella, served with a lovely Rioja Alta and followed by another new creation - a tiramisu with praline/ginger sauce. The critic had been delighted and promised a rave review in the next issue of the quarterly publication - a real coup for the restaurant and a potentially huge opportunity to increase profits and enhance the café's public profile.

Scotty had been suitably appreciative of the man's kind words, but . . .

Saul frowned. Scotty had been doing a lot of experimenting lately, developing exciting new main dishes, wonderful, colorful salads, and spectacular desserts, and the café's clientele was enjoying the fruits of his labors tremendously. The only one who wasn't enjoying it . . . was Scotty. When showered with compliments and praise, he would smile and offer quiet thanks, but the smiles never really touched his eyes. There, within those blue depths which had once sparkled with bright love and complete contentment and unbridled optimism, there were now only shadows of doubt and despair.

Saul could see what was happening, could see that Scotty was slowly losing the ability to believe that things would eventually work out for him and his absent husband.

Scotty was losing hope.

_God damn Kevin!_

Saul carefully put his laptop away and rose from the desk that had once been Kevin's, noting that it seemed almost impossible that this whole thing had broken wide open so recently. In some ways, it seemed like forever, like everything that had existed before was so far in the past that it was hard to remember. On the other hand, in some ways it felt like yesterday. It was amazing that an entire world could collapse so suddenly. And yet - when he really thought about it - he realized that he was wrong. Perhaps the final collapse had happened on the day when Scotty had revealed his ugly truth, but the erosion had started long before, and he knew exactly when. Only he didn't like to think about that, so it was easier, in some ways, to ignore the origins of their personal tragedy.

Nevertheless, it had only taken a few hours to convert the room which had formerly been a law office to the business/accounting office of the café, and Saul was determined that - when his wayward nephew finally deigned to come crawling home - he would have to find somewhere else to play lawyer. Especially since most of what he'd been doing in recent months was of the 'pro bono' variety, the kind of thing that didn't make money, so he couldn't very well claim to be a viable contributor to the establishment, could he? 

_How the mighty had fallen!_

Saul paused at the door as that thought struck him, and then . . . he suddenly noticed a sour taste in his mouth and a chill touching his spine. How was it that he could stand here, in the office that had been Kevin's, in the restaurant that never would have existed without Kevin's support (and money), staring at the man who had stolen Kevin's heart, and be so filled with resentment and anger and bitterness against a nephew he had loved whole-heartedly throughout his life - a nephew who had always been there for him, always cared for him, always . . . forgiven him? The whole family had always taken gleeful pleasure in identifying Kevin as a cynic and a contrarian, but . . . In their hearts, surely they'd all known better. Surely they'd recognized those parts of his personality as simple defensive mechanisms - superficial and constructed only as shields against the malice of a homophobic world. Hadn't they?

Maybe the question was not only about who Kevin had become. Maybe the question needed to be expanded to ask who the rest of them had become, maybe even who Scotty had become.

He didn't enjoy that thought much either; that observation seemed to be developing into a habit, one which he needed to learn to avoid. Only . . . he couldn't quite manage it.

"Scotty," he called, desperate for distraction, "I finally found my old recipe for chicken marsala. It might need a bit of updating, but I think it would make a nice addition to the menu. What do you think?"

"Sounds good." Softly spoken, without even a trace of enthusiasm.

Saul tried again. "You know, you really knocked it out of the park tonight, Honey. You don't often render a culinary critic speechless. Wonderful work."

"Thanks." Polite, accompanied by a small smile, but still absent, without heart or depth or genuine interest.

"You deserve a good rest, so why don't you go on up and get some sleep? It's been a rough day, and you have to be tired. I'll lock up."

"No. You go on. I've got a few things to do, so just . . ."

"Such as? You've been working like an indentured servant here, so why would you . . ."

"Because it's easier. Okay? Working is just . . . easier."

"Why? Look, Scotty, I know you're still blaming yourself for all this, but . . ."

"But what? What, Saul? Are you going to offer me your undying understanding and your reassurance that I was the victim here? And tell me that if Kevin had just put aside his own needs and pain in order to look after me, that it never would have happened? Is that what you want to tell me?"

"Well, basically . . . yes. And I think that should make you . . ."

Scotty's smile was not pretty. "Make me what? Make me feel smug and justified? Or victimized, as if I'm the one who's entitled to act like the injured party, so I can forget what I saw in his face when he realized what I'd done? Jesus Christ, who are you? Who are all of you? Do you have any idea who was here tonight, Saul? Did you not have a cold, ugly moment when you looked up and saw . . ." He fell silent, but the tears in his eyes spoke volumes.

"Saw who? Who was I supposed to see?"

Scotty wiped his eyes, and moved behind the bar, deliberately starting to rearrange stemware and shot glasses that were already in perfect order. "Marcus. Marcus was here tonight. He walked straight into the kitchen and wanted to know if I was ready to . . . make up for lost time."

"Oh, shit!"

"Yeah, shit."

"Why didn't you yell for somebody? Get someone to throw the little bastard out?"

Scotty leaned forward then and braced his hands against the bar. "Because - despite the attitude of the whole Walker clan - this wasn't his fault, Saul. He didn't drug me or rape me, or get me drunk in order to take advantage. He simply saw an opportunity, and he took it. He wasn't betraying anybody. That was all me."

"Scotty, you can't keep on do . . ."

"Go home, Saul."

"But . . ."

"Go home. I need some time to think about things."

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

It surprised him to realize that he actually liked sitting at Kevin's desk. And, despite whatever thoughts Saul might have to the contrary, it was and always would be Kevin's desk, in Kevin's office. That would never change, even if . . . but no, he wouldn't go there. Couldn't quite bring himself to go there . . . yet. Although he knew that he would have to face the possibility, and much sooner than he would like.

He opened the desk's middle drawer - the one Kevin always referred to as 'the junk drawer' - and pulled out a garishly decorated memo pad. A gift from Paige last Christmas, delivered with a note implying that her uncle's life was entirely too drab and needed a dash of color; ergo, a pack of lined notepads bearing bright renderings of cartoon figures - pandas and peacocks and monkeys mostly, all dancing about in fields of stylized flowers. There was, in truth, not a lot of space for making notes, but that was actually the point; in her own inimitable way, Paige had been pointing out that her uncle worked too hard.

She'd been right. Kevin had been working twelve-hour days almost every day, and bringing home very little money in the process. But while the money earned had been minimal, the impact hadn't; he had been doing something enormously important. He'd been using his prodigious legal skills and his incredible intellect to make a real difference in the lives of people who needed real help, but couldn't afford the fees of the fancy law firms housed in the towering skyscrapers in the heart of the city.

Scotty smiled when he remembered the frightened young woman who'd come seeking help to free herself from the vindictive persecution of a powerful government figure whose advances she'd rejected; Kevin had been outraged on her behalf, but he had also combined his legal expertise and his political chops to help her achieve justice and start a new, better life. Then there'd been the lovely, blonde, twin girls, aged 14, prostituted by their parents and forced to earn their way by selling their bodies on the internet, to pedophiles and perverts. Miranda and Melissa were now happily and safely ensconced in the home of an aged, but still vital maiden aunt while their parents were just beginning their jail term. It had been Kevin who had pushed his contacts in the DA's office to pursue the investigation while he represented the girls in family court, to remove them from the abusive environment.

Kevin had made a lot of friends during the last year - children he'd defended and protected, elderly couples who'd been abused by their families and thus needed a white knight to ride to their rescue, single mothers who'd needed help in obtaining help from both the system and absentee fathers, victims of corporate greed - lots of friends, not much money. Of course - inevitably - he'd also made a lot of enemies, some of them powerful enough to have escaped the punishment they so richly deserved, and some of them probably with very long memories. Something else to worry about. 

Nevertheless, he'd done good work, mostly because of a genuine desire to help and a passion for justice. But Scotty knew that there'd also been another reason. When his husband buried himself in the complexity of his cases, he didn't have to think about the empty spaces in his life or the demons that drove him.

Kevin had been drowning in a growing sense of loss and had come to believe that he was dragging his loved ones down with him. As a result, slowly, inevitably, he'd begun to pull away.

Scotty sighed and poured himself a hefty shot of scotch from the bottle of Chivas Regal that his husband always kept tucked away in his desk. He chose a pen from the assortment in the ceramic cat cup (a gift from Evan for Uncle Kevin) and tried to organize his thoughts to make his grocery list for the next day. Saul wanted chicken marsala, so he should put mushrooms on the list and a good marsala wine, since there was none in the cellar. But he wasn't in the mood for an Italian dish. He was more concerned with coming up with new comfort food. The paella had been a big success, but it hadn't accomplished what he was hoping for.

He laid the pen down with a sigh, coming face to face with the realization that developing fantastic new recipes to wow the critics wasn't what he wanted to do. He wanted to create something, cook something that would be so wonderful, so perfect that it would somehow entice his husband to come home. Kevin, despite an ability to enjoy pretty much any culinary effort Scotty might make, actually preferred simpler meals - home cooking. Thus it wasn't that the chef wanted to come up with a fabulous new gourmet dish; rather, it was that the husband wanted to find a new way to prepare chicken pot pie - one of Kevin's favorites - that would be so wonderful that Kevin would be drawn home by the sheer perfection of it.

So . . . free range, organic chicken and a beautiful selection of fresh carrots, peppers, and herbs from the farmer's market.

He was being silly, and he knew it. It wasn't as if the aroma of his culinary triumph would waft through the ether to seek out Kevin, and tempt him home. So he wasn't making sense, but Scotty decided that making sense had been over-rated, of late. Perhaps it was time for a bit of wishful thinking.

He sipped at his scotch, and wondered when everything had gone so wrong. Then he sighed. Stupid question, of course. He knew exactly when.

He wished - sometimes - that he remembered it better, when he wasn't wishing that he didn't remember it at all.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

_There wasn't really a fog, was there? Maybe it was just steam or smoke, but from what? From where?_

_He didn't know much at that moment, but he was absolutely certain that he'd never been so terrified in his entire life. Not for his own injuries; yes, there was pain, in his head and his chest, and he was dizzy and confused, and his ears didn't seem to be working at all, as the world had gone silent. But there was something more important than his physical condition._

_Kevin. Where was Kevin?_

_His heart was pounding in his chest as he lifted his head and tried to see through the blood pouring from the gash in his scalp._

_He still couldn't hear when he became aware that someone was touching him, talking to him, faces filled with panic, and he understood that he should know who they were, but he didn't have time to wonder. He had to find . . ._

_Then they were gone, and the silence set back in. There were lights and bodies - but no sound._

_And no Kevin._

_He managed to stand finally, and turned to look at the car - the car which was now a crumpled mass of metal, resting on its roof, resting amid a vast sea of broken glass._

_Time seemed to stretch and warp around him. How long had he been here? And how long since that last moment . . . he remembered stretching his hand out and placing it high on his husband's thigh, inspiring Kevin's trademark only-for-Scotty smile and wondering if he dared go further - if Kevin would be able to concentrate on driving if . . . Oh, my God! Had he . . . had he caused this? Had his lust for his beloved caused Kevin to look away at exactly the wrong moment? Had he . . ._

_But then, it didn't matter any more, because, suddenly, Kevin was there. Kevin, larger than life; Kevin, filling his arms and his heart; Kevin, his anchor, his talisman . . . his everything._

_He would never remember everything about that night, but a few things would linger in his mind - things he would have preferred to forget: the terrible fear in Kitty's eyes; the sight of Nora, huddled in her brother's arms and devastated by her inability to prevent the crumbling of her family's lives; Jason McCallister's arrival at the hospital and his almost instinctive move to push himself into Kevin's arms; Rebecca's terrible confusion, causing a vacillation between anguish and anger and an inability to choose a target for either._

_And Kevin. He would always remember quick, broken images of Kevin - tireless, determined, moving heaven and earth to make sure that his family received appropriate care. Kevin - doing everything for everyone, but somehow . . . not there when he needed him, not available to answer Scotty's questions or hold Scotty's hand, except for an occasional, too brief, isolated moment._

_Mostly, he would remember being alone - warm under the blanket Kevin had provided, and medically stable due to the professional treatment he'd received at his husband's insistence, and mostly floating in a drug-induced somnolence - but still basically alone. And Kevin . . . most of what Kevin was doing came to him through a fog; Scotty understood that his husband was taking on the burden of caring for the entire Walker brood, but he still couldn't help feeling just a bit neglected, due to all those times he stirred and reached for his husband and found him just . . . gone._

_Especially when he noticed that Kevin was becoming more and more distant, as well as more and more convinced that he was failing in his efforts. Especially in the biggest effort of all._

_He saw it in the depths of those beloved blue eyes when Kevin stared into the face of the ER doctor who came out to speak to Kitty concerning Robert's condition. Kitty did what Kitty always did at such moments: she refused to accept the facts and sought a comforting alternative, and she was supported in that effort by Nora and Saul and Sarah. But not Justin and not Kevin._

_Leaving Kitty at the center of the family's comfort specialists, Justin retreated, hurrying out of the hospital to find a quiet place to clear his thoughts. But Kevin . . . Kevin didn't run away. Nor did he join in the offering of useless platitudes. He just stood there as something inside him - something precious and irreplaceable just . . . died._

_And Scotty would always wonder why he - even in his drug-induced stupor - was the only one who noticed._

_Not that he was particularly good at noticing anything that night. He would spend endless hours over the next year feeling horribly guilty when Kitty - after an extended interview with Robert's cardiologist and the resident neurologist - came back into the waiting room and, in the grip of an incredible degree of agony as her brother held her, noticed what no one else had bothered to see._

_Scotty was staring at Kevin's expression when the family realized that the son and brother who had taken care of them all throughout the endless hours of this ordeal had himself gone untreated, uncared for. They were all appalled at their own ignorance and negligence, but Kevin . . . there was no trace of anger or resentment in Kevin's eyes. There was only defeat, and Scotty knew, at that moment, that there always would be. Kevin would blame himself because . . . because that's what Kevin always did best, wasn't it?_

_The medical staff, belatedly alarmed, rushed him into a trauma treatment room, and it was at that point that members of the McCallister entourage stepped in and insisted on driving the Walkers home, pointing out - correctly - that they had all been there at the hospital for many hours and that there was nothing more that any of them could do for the victims. Kitty would stay, of course; as the wife of a U.S. senator, she was entitled to ignore protocols and be granted temporary quarters on site to allow her immediate and unrestricted access to her husband. And Rebecca would stay with David, as Holly's life still hung in the balance. Justin would linger as well, determined to help his wife. But for the rest, it was just foolish to hang around._

_Scotty wanted to stay, to wait for Kevin, but he was, by that time, dead on his feet and so spaced out from the combination of painkillers and exhaustion that he could barely hold his head up. Saul had insisted that he could not continue to sit in the waiting room, and Scotty had not had the energy to resist. In the end, he docilely accepted the judgment of the group and allowed Saul to escort him home, with a member of Robert's staff driving._

_He would remember nothing of the drive, nothing of his arrival at the loft, nothing of the rest of the night. He would only remember waking in the morning, aching and in pain . . . and alone._

_It was the first time in a very long time, but it would not be the last._

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Scotty flexed his shoulders, trying without success to ease the ache in his muscles, and sighed as he extinguished the desk lamp - the very same lamp he had bought for his husband as an office-warming gift when they'd first moved into the building.

Somehow, the room looked smaller now - even cramped - and slightly seedy. Once, it had felt different; it had even managed to achieve some level of elegance. But not now.

Not now, because it wasn't the office that had been elegant. It had been the man who occupied it, and now . . . 

Now, it was just a room, cluttered and disorganized, but basically - empty.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

* _As Long as You're Mine_ \- Stephen Schwartz

tbc


	4. The Ghosts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 4: The Ghosts

Chapter 4: The Ghosts

_All those words come undone and now I'm not the only one_   
_Facing the ghosts that decide if the fire inside still burns._

\--- _Breathe Again_ \--- Sara Bareilles

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

It had not changed.

It surprised him to realize that he had been hoping for that, since he hadn't spent much time thinking about it since he'd made his choice. Or perhaps 'choice' was not the right word, since he had not actually invested any effort in weighing pros and cons, assets or liabilities; he'd spent about as much time reaching a decision as it would have taken to spread a map on a table and jab a finger toward a spot - completely at random. Additionally, if pressed, he could not have come up with any version of a rational explanation of why he had selected this particular place.

The memories were sweet enough, but brief. He'd only been here once, and he'd been just a child at the time. But still, there was something about the place that had called to him, that seemed to reach for him.

And perhaps the bottom line was that it was as good - or bad - as any other, in that it really didn't make any difference. Anything that would have made a difference was gone now, consigned to a past he dared not allow himself to examine too closely. Not now. Maybe later. Much, much later.

He drove slowly down the somewhat narrow tree-lined avenue, looking for landmarks, although he was not entirely sure that he'd remember anything at all.

But then there it was, directly ahead of him, and the years seemed to melt away as he pulled into a parking space and sat absorbing the sights and sounds and smells of the small town, losing himself in memory. For a few minutes, he was once more the ten-year-old little boy, tagging along behind his big brother, tracing in the footsteps of his father and his grandfather, Thomas Walker, miraculously resurrected for these few precious moments from his carefully tended grave in a beautifully landscaped cemetery on a hillside overlooking the Ventura River in the Ojai highlands. The huge old oak tree still sat dead center in the town square, providing deep drifts of shade for the faded, ramshackle structure of a currently deserted farmer's market, which would probably be crowded during lovely spring and summer week-ends. Also prospering in the shade were a myriad of pebbled paths that skirted the tree's breadth, as well as a hodgepodge collection of heavy old benches - wrought iron and weathered wood - that were scattered haphazardly around the square, and an iron-framed swing set that looked exactly as it had all those years ago, although logic decreed that it could not possibly be the same one he remembered. On the Northeast corner of the square, a mission-style building still housed the town hall, with a small, discreet area set aside for easy parking, and the structures which surrounded the square on all sides housed small, family-owned businesses that had probably been handed down from fathers to sons for countless generations - a drugstore, that had probably once been labeled an apothecary; a general store/grocery, a dress shop, a barbershop, a bookstore, a bakery, a hardware store, a butcher's shop, a shoe store, a small bank, and a Shell gas station - the last slightly more modern and sleek than the rest, featuring the same kind of automated pumps that had become the most common sight along all U.S. highways. No sprawling Wal-Marts here though, or Costcos or Whole Foods either. Not even a McDonald's, although there was a battered drive-in burger joint, with a huge, faded sign advertising "the best malts in Tuolumne County".

Instead of the omnipresent golden arches, there was an ice cream shop - one that had definitely seen better days, but still seemed to be plodding along, surviving each slow day to serve another, with hand-painted wooden signs listing unique choices like caramel apple sundaes and double-dipped praline cones. Surviving - in singular style, which was probably a watchword in an area that had certainly seen better economic times - like the state around it. There was also, perched on the southwest corner, a neighborhood café/saloon - the kind that every small American town could boast of, which welcomed families and travelers as well as local regulars, while serving the kind of food that truckers and farm workers and day laborers would enjoy - not to mention the students from St. Mary Di Rosa College, if the small, discreet directional sign at the intersection of the main thoroughfare and a narrow North-bound street was an accurate indicator. 

Kevin frowned, trying to remember if such a place had existed at the time of his prior visit, but came up blank, except for a fleeting image of a small enclave of mission-style buildings clustered around a tiny park-like area, but whether campus or apartment compound or an early version of a small town shopping center he could not say for sure.

At any rate, the cafe - Bell's Pub, which he did remember, much to his own surprise - appeared to be doing a steady business, and the slate sign near the front door spelled out the day's menu, consisting of roast pork loin, chicken pot pie, garlic-roasted potatoes, carrot-raisin salad, and banana pudding trifle.

Chicken pot pie and banana pudding trifle.

He was suddenly inundated by memories, crystal bright and lovely and rendered super confusing because they were interspersed with older images which originated from a different time in his life, a time long before he became the Kevin Walker he was today. He sighed when that thought struck him - the Kevin Walker he could no longer afford to be.

He remembered sitting in a booth in a corner of the café - a place fully submerged in a look that was so completely 1950's diner that it was a cliché, evoking images of girls in saddle oxfords and boys in motorcycle jackets dancing the jitterbug to the primal rock and roll music - Chuck Berry or Bill Haley and the Comets or the Drifters - rising from the jukebox, with shoes squeaking on the ugly green tile of the floor, and chocolate malts scattered across the singularly unattractive surface of the formica-topped tables. He remembered sitting beside his grandfather and opposite his father and brother and watching as both father and grandfather exuded the kind of easy charm (later in life he would characterize it as more sleazy than easy) in conversing with the local patrons while he looked up at a plump, red-haired waitress with a beaming smile who had just served his dinner. He remembered deciding, just moments later, that chicken pot pie would be his favorite dish for the rest of his life, with banana pudding trifle coming in a close second.

Distant memories - probably distorted or even broken, but still pleasant.

The more recent memories were, of course, sharper; painfully sharp.

Scotty seldom preened; it simply wasn't in his nature. But once in a very great while, when he managed to create something that brought bright, beautiful smiles of appreciation to his husband's face, he had been known to gloat - just a bit. In fact, Kevin took a certain measure of pride in knowing that he was the only person who could regularly achieve that particular goal, and it always gave him a warm feeling of satisfaction when he could manage it.

Oh, Scotty liked it well enough when Saul or Nora raved about his latest culinary masterpiece or a well-respected critic commented favorably about his adaptation of some lobster entrée or his inspiration of a re-creation of some exquisite French pastry. But it was ever and only Kevin who could - with just a word or a smile - inspire that special sense of accomplishment that marked his most precious moments.

It had only been a couple of weeks before the . . . well, best not dwell on that or the sweet memory would be darkened and lost forever. At any rate, Kevin had been working very long hours - almost twenty-four, seven - on a case involving negligence by a multi-national pharmaceutical company in the testing of a new cardiac supplement which had resulted in extreme respiratory damage to a young mother from Bakersfield, who was now confronted with the possible loss of her children due to pressure from the youngest child's here-to-fore absentee biological father. Kevin thought he was making progress toward proving willful negligence on the part of the research facility and deliberate malice on the part of the ne'er-do-well father, but he was almost too exhausted to think straight. It was at that point that Scotty had stepped in.

But he had not planned a romantic getaway for two, knowing that Kevin would be unable to accept or appreciate such a gesture at that juncture. Instead, he had taken an evening off from Café 429, leaving it in Saul's capable hands, invited Dorothy - the young mother - her two children and her aged father up to the flat, where he had cooked Kevin's favorites: chicken pot pie, cole slaw, and banana pudding trifle. He had experimented a little, adding a bit of lemon zest to the pie, a generous handful of raisins to the slaw, and a sprinkling of walnuts to the trifle, and had the satisfaction of watching his beloved husband rave over his efforts.

Kevin was always generous with his praise - to Scotty, anyway - but he didn't often actually rave. Pithy comments, laced with throw-away wit and a vivid sparkle in dark eyes, were more his style, but Scotty relished the exceptional moments - the times when Kevin deliberately discarded his reserve and allowed himself to demonstrate his pride and delight in the talents and abilities of his husband.

At those moments, Scotty became a mega-star. It was a gift that no one else had ever been able to give him.

And now . . .

Kevin sighed and got out of the car, deliberately avoiding any thought about who would come forward to assume his place in Scotty's life.

He did not want to know who it might be, but he never doubted that someone would step forward quickly - eagerly. It was Scotty, after all, and prospective suitors were almost certainly already lining up, eager to try their luck.

Until that moment, Kevin had not realized that he was hungry, although - when he thought about it and remembered that he had not eaten at all since driving north from LA - he was surprised that he had not noticed sooner. It would have been a gross exaggeration to say that he had a genuine appetite, but he knew that he had to eat something if he was going to accomplish the goals he'd set for himself.

So . . . Bell's Pub it would be.

He debated whether or not he should close the roof and lock up the car - all his LA instincts were screaming that it was really stupid to leave the Saab open and vulnerable - but, in the end, he realized that it didn't really matter any more. In leaving an entire life behind, how could it matter if someone helped themselves to a few odds and ends. So he simply pocketed his keys and walked around the square, stopping for a moment to read the letters carved in a slab of granite in front of the town hall. 

_Piper's Canyon. Founded March, 1871, by Vernon J. and Rebecca Piper._

Piper's Canyon, California. A tiny hamlet almost lost on the map, buried away in the foothills of the Sierra Nevadas, too far off the beaten path and too limited in amenities to attract much in the way of tourism or vacationers, but wrapped up in all the natural beauty of the area - unheralded, unnoticed, almost forgotten by the world - and thus perfect for his needs.

There was an inn - only the one, as he recalled - and, more importantly, a string of cabins scattered across the hillsides, available for seasonal hunters, fishermen, and families looking to escape the big city. But all small, discreet sites, catering to those who returned year after year, generation after generation, or came to explore after learning about the low-key charms of the area via word-of-mouth. There had never been an effort toward making big splashes in advertising circles. To the South lay the tourist behemoths of Yosemite and Groveland and Coulterville, but here . . . here was the undisturbed ambiance of a small, private town which had no interest in enticing the onset of thundering herds and tour busses.

The café had changed; of course it had. Not even an uncommon fondness for retro-décor would have justified preserving it as it had been. Nostalgia, after all, was not an adequate compensation for ugly.

Gone were the ugly green tile floors, the chipped chrome and formica tables, although the juke box was still there, looking very much as it had more than three decades earlier. The floors were now a rich, polished wood, the tables a sturdy dark oak, and the booths rebuilt and upholstered in heavy tweed. The room was still semi-divided - café on one side, saloon on the other - but it was all possessed of an easy, friendly warmth - small town hospitality at its best.

Kevin deliberately avoided the booths that were unoccupied and took a seat at the lunch counter, helping himself to a plastic-coated menu to peruse the specials of the day. Monday - roast turkey with dressing, Waldorf salad, lemon meringue pie. He looked down the list. Ah, yes. It must be Thursday; it came as something of a shock to realize that, until that moment, he hadn't known what day it was, and hadn't cared enough to wonder about it.

"Hi, Sweetheart. What can I get you?"

He looked up and was immediately lost, in place and time. Surely, it couldn't be . . .

"Cat got your tongue, Honey?" asked the plump, red-haired waitress with the brilliant smile. Although, in truth, the hair was only partially red these days; most of it was white; and the plumpness had intensified into a roundness that bordered on obesity. But the nametag was the kicker. It seemed impossible, but this was certainly Belinda Bell, wife of the founder of the pub.

"I'm sorry," he mumbled, realizing that he was staring, open-mouthed. "It's just . . ."

She grinned. "Not to worry, Sweetheart. Any time anyone wants to look up at me with eyes like that, well . . . I'm more than willing. So tell me, Gorgeous, do I know you?"

It was his turn to smile. "No. You wouldn't remember."

"Not so sure," she laughed. "Eyes like that only come along once in a while."

"I was just a kid," he explained, but his face was suddenly warm as he noticed the appreciative smile in her eyes.

She nodded, and he realized that she probably got that a lot, since she had apparently been in this place, this setting, for more than three decades. "So . . . what can I get you? The chicken pot pie is still the best in the West."

"No," he said quickly, and felt an ache rise deep inside him as he wondered if he would ever be able to eat that much-beloved dish again. "No. Could I have the pot roast, please?"

"Sure. Next best thing. With a nice serving of glazed carrots, some fresh cornbread, and a big old slab of red velvet cake to finish it off."

The ache intensified. "Yes to everything, except the cake. Gotta watch out for those dreaded love handles, you know."

Belinda Bell regarded him in silence for a moment; she was not a well-educated woman, had never been trained in psychology and had no knowledge of the intricacies of body language. But she knew pain when she saw it, and a quick assessment of this young man's face and form - lovely face, lovely form, expensively dressed right down to the Cartier watch on his wrist and the Gucci suede boots on his feet, with a carriage and an ambiance that spoke of money, class, and breeding - told her all she needed to know. "From where I'm sitting," she said with a broad smile and a very slight leer, "you've got nothing to worry about. And I think you could use a bit of coddling. So - no red velvet cake, but I've got a peach cobbler that will knock your Gucci socks off."

Kevin hesitated. Scotty had always been a little funny about peaches, holding them to a higher standard than other fruits. So - he thought hard for a moment - he couldn't think of a single memory binding his husband to any dish made of peaches.

"Peach cobbler would be fine."

The Café was mostly deserted at this hour, with only a few customers lingering over coffee or pieces of pie or - in the saloon area - a few mugs of beer. Thus it was only a few minutes before Belinda was back with a tray, heavy-laden with dishes. Kevin could only stare with wide, disbelieving eyes.

"You don't really expect me to eat all that," he said with a soft smile. "Do you?"

"I really do," she replied, arranging dishes in front of him - far more dishes than he'd expected. In addition to everything she'd mentioned as part of his menu, she had included a large tossed salad, an appetizer dish of potato/broccoli chowder, and mounded the serving of pot roast and its accompanying vegetables over a huge scoop of rice. There were also a couple of deviled eggs, and a serving of asparagus spears.

"Shit!" he laughed. "I can't. I really can't."

She just nodded. "Okay. So you can't. But you could give it a try. If you really can't, I won't make a big fuss. I promise."

With definite misgivings, he dug in and found - to his amazement - that he was a lot hungrier than he'd realized. Belinda, with more discretion than he would have given her credit for, moved away to refill coffee cups and clear tables, giving him a chance to enjoy the first food he'd eaten in days, barring the occasional Coke and bag of chips.

He was just savoring the last of the soup, tilting the cup to make sure to get it all, when she returned and looked down at him with a kind smile. "So," she said quietly, "you came here as a kid, but you haven't been back in a long time, right?"

He nodded. "Yeah. That's right."

"So what brings you back now?"

He went very still, staring down at his plate as if suddenly fascinated with the shape and texture of asparagus spears. "Just passing through."

"Really? We don't get too many passing through here. Not really on the road to anywhere. But if it's just a road trip, looking back on your childhood, that's fine. Will you be here long, or are you just stopping for a meal? You have somewhere else to be?"

"No," he said finally. "Not really."

She nodded, making herself busy with wiping down a counter that really didn't need wiping. "So footloose and fancy free. That sounds like fun."

He toyed with his fork, mixing bits of carrot with bites of asparagus, but noticing nothing except the deep ache welling inside him. "Yeah. Fun."

"You know," she said softly, "I've spent more than thirty-four years behind this bar. And it's amazing how much I've learned over time. Oh, not enough to impress the high and mighty, or the educated elite. But for simple common sense and an ability to figure out what's going on in a man's head . . . well, I don't think the whiz kids with their psychology degrees do it any better. And you, young man, you're not even a challenge. Your life . . . you think your life is over. Don't you?"

He looked up at her then, and she was devastated by the degree of pain in his eyes. "It is."

To his surprise, she didn't argue. "Then what you really need is a place where you can be safe, where you can go to ground and nurse your wounds and figure out what comes next. Right?"

His smile was wistful. "Did somebody just slip you the handbook on how to handle Kevin W. . ." He went silent abruptly, his face going stark white as realization struck him. He couldn't use his own name. Being familiar with the logistics of locating people who didn't wish to be found, he remembered that the very first rule of disappearing was to take on a new name. Something completely unassociated with his previous life.

". . . ynter?" His recovery was almost seamless. Almost, and Belinda Bell somehow felt how much that quick stumble had hurt him.

"No," she said quickly, to cover the awkwardness of the moment and give him a chance to regain his composure. "I just thought it would be nice to be told that you've chosen a good place for that sort of thing. People around here don't go nosing into a newcomer's business, or prying into his past. It's a good place for stepping out of one life and into another." She hesitated then, taking a moment to study his hands, to note that they were the hands of a professional, without calluses or roughness, but with a pale ring of flesh on the ring finger of the left hand.

Well, that added another bit of the picture, didn't it?

"You have a job?" she asked.

'Not any more," he answered, with a rough little laugh. "Gone. Like everything else."

She nodded. "The economy sucks. Lots of businesses going bust. What was it - sales?"

His smile was only slightly wistful. "Do I look like a salesman?"

Hers, on the other hand, was brilliant. "Actually, you do. You could sure as hell sell me ice - in Alaska."

He blushed a bit - she found the response completely charming - and then seemed to reach some kind of decision. "Yeah. Sales, it was. But no more. Company's gone belly up. So I figured it was time to strike out in a new direction."

She was looking once more at that mark on his finger, as he picked up his fork and began to scoop up a mouthful of rice and vegetables. "Of course you did. So you planning to keep on selling? Is that . . ."

"No," he said firmly, still playing with his food. "I don't want to do that anymore. I just want something quiet. Something that gives me time . . . to think."

She regarded him with a speculative smile. "So you looking for a get-rich-quick opportunity?"

He laughed softly. "I'm looking for something that lets me put food on the table, a roof over my head, a few books by the easy chair, and . . ." He paused, and was surprised to realize that what he'd almost said was a fundamental truth - so he might as well say it. "And gives me a chance to relax and take a few deep breaths."

He didn't even stop to wonder if she would understand what he meant. But she did, and she thought maybe Fate had taken an opportunity to step in, and give him what he needed.

"Well, young Kevin Wynter," she said with an indulgent smile, "it's just possible that you might have come to the right place."

He finished off his deviled egg, took a big bite of asparagus, and a hefty swallow of an unexpectedly good pinot grigio as he looked up and waited for her explanation.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Peaches! He had asked for fresh melons, plums, artichokes, and mint from the local produce market, and Saul had brought him peaches. He wasn't a big fan of peaches; he didn't trust them. One could never be certain if they would live up to the promise of the blush of their skins and the richness of their scent.

He took a cautious sniff and found the fragrance delectable. But then, that was only to be expected, wasn't it? It was peaches, after all. On the other hand, peaches, he realized, were one of only a very few foods that held absolutely no associative memories with moments of his past - good or bad. So maybe it was time he turned his skills toward the development of a truly ambrosial peach concoction. It would be another small step on his road to building new protocols, new priorities. And if, to his surprise, his life ever did revert to normal, he would have something new, something uniquely his own, to use to elicit that smile - that one, bright, irresistible, smi . . .

He deliberately turned away from his contemplation of both the fruit and the speculation surrounding what he could do with it, and reached for the first thing that came to hand - a proposed menu for a charitable event scheduled for Sunday brunch. One of Nora's charities, which sometimes seemed to be infinite in number. This one involved a liberal arts recruiting program for children of inner city ghettos. Sometimes, the sheer volume of Nora's causes seemed overwhelming, but they were also a lifesaver. As long as he was studying and cogitating over what to serve and how to prepare it and how to get the donating public in the right mood to dig deeper into purses and wallets, he wasn't lost in the melancholia of thinking about the changes in his life.

Maybe he should develop some charitable interests of his own; the more hours he could manage to fill, the better.

It was late morning, and the café was not actually open for business yet. They had only recently extended their hours to accommodate a limited lunch clientele, but that didn't usually start until one o'clock - typical fashionable California business lunch-time. Thus he was slightly startled when the front door opened, a soft, discreet electronic hum alerting the staff of a new arrival.

He rose from the bar and turned to greet the newcomer - mostly to announce that the establishment wasn't really open for business yet - and froze in his tracks as he realized who was standing in the doorway, regarding him with a small, sad smile.

And he knew - knew that the news would not be good, knew that he didn't want to be standing here to hear it, but also knew that he had no choice. He was the one who had asked for Browne Carter's help. Only, it wasn't fair. When he'd asked for that help, he'd fully believed that it would be a positive thing, that the senior partner of Kevin's old law firm would be able to bring him good news and help in resolving the issue between him and his husband.

Without a word, Scotty reached across the bar to grab a fifth of fine Scotch and two glasses, as Carter moved forward to settle into a bar stool. He accepted the drink Scotty handed him and drained it in one gulp.

"You haven't found him," said Scotty, his voice soft and without inflection.

"No. But we did find something."

"Such as?"

"His car. We found his car."

Scotty closed his eyes, fighting off images of Kevin's precious Saab smashed and mangled in some miles-deep ravine. "His car? What do you . . ."

"He sold it, Scotty." Carter chose to ignore the younger man's quick gasp, as he realized which conclusion Scotty must have jumped to. "A resale dealer in San Jose. Two days ago."

Scotty gulped at his drink, struggling for composure. "So he traded it in?"

"No. He sold it and just . . . walked away. Nobody really paid any attention to where he went afterwards, but the dealership is located on a major highway. He could have gone anywhere." The older man regarded the young chef with heavy-lidded eyes and felt something he'd never expected to feel. Browne Carter had never considered himself a homophobe - had never treated Kevin Walker any differently than any other young lawyer under his supervision, simply because he was gay. But he had also never wasted much time thinking about what it must be like to love someone the way Scotty obviously loved Kevin and contemplate losing him forever.

Carter loved his wife very much, but he discovered, in that moment, that he probably didn't love her as much as these young men loved each other. It only took another moment for him to concede that he was glad he didn't; he didn't want to have to endure this kind of loss - ever.

"Thank you, Mr. Carter," Scotty said finally, pouring out more Scotch. "I appreciate your efforts. I didn't know who to turn to."

To his own surprise, the lawyer leaned forward and braced his hand against Scotty's shoulder. "We'll keep looking if you like." Then he paused, and seemed to be selecting his words very carefully. "But I have to be honest with you, Scotty. Lawyers - even of the upscale, corporate variety, like me - and like Kevin used to be - come in contact with certain shadowy elements of society in the course of our work, and . . . I'm sorry, but there's no easy way to say this . . . if Kevin truly wants to disappear, he's going to know how to go about it. And frankly, you have better sources for this kind of thing than I do. Political sources."

Scotty's smile was weary. "Robert McAllister is dead, Mr. Carter."

Carter nodded. "Yes, I know. But his family isn't, and your sister-in-law isn't. They all still have contacts within the RNC. Furthermore, Kevin himself was pretty well known in political circles; he even had some contacts inside the Secret Service, and others among the political press. There are still plenty of avenues to explore." Then the man huffed a deep breath. "If you're quite sure you want to explore them."

"What do you mean? Why wouldn't I . . ."

"Mr. Wandell . . ." Scotty noticed the deliberate shift to more formal address, "I have no idea what happened to drive a wedge between you and your husband. I will admit to a certain ugly curiosity, because - quite frankly - I don't think I ever knew two people more obviously in love than the two of you. But it is, ultimately, not my business. However, I know Kevin Walker, well enough to know that he never does anything without a compelling motive. Whatever happened, he obviously believes that there's no future left for the two of you. Perhaps . . . perhaps you need to accept his judgment. Perhaps you need to get on with your life - to let him go."

Scotty sighed, staring down into the rich amber of his whiskey. Then he smiled, and Carter almost gasped at the degree of pain he read in the depths of gleaming blue eyes. "I can't," said the young man in a whisper. "I don't think I ever will."

Carter stood and finished his drink. "So do you want . . ."

"Yes. Keep looking. I'll pay whatever . . ."

"No." Carter looked momentarily uneasy. "No need for that. We . . . I . . . the firm owed Kevin a better alternative than the one he was ultimately offered. We . . . I didn't treat him the way he should have been treated. He deserved better."

Scotty's smile, this time, was brilliant, though fleeting. "Yes. He did."

The lawyer had the good grace to look embarrassed and took a moment to shake the young chef's hand before making his escape.

So back to his obligations to Nora's charity.

Sunday brunch. It would be a buffet, of course, and Nora was busy recruiting the entertainment. She had more than a nodding acquaintance with many of the musical artists in the area, and it wouldn't be at all surprising if she managed to secure a commitment from Jimmy Buffet or Bonnie Raitt or Shania Twain or some equally well-known, charitably committed individual. So she would handle the stars strolling the floor, and he would manage the stars on the table. 

He heard a shift in the music wafting through the room, and smiled when he recognized Louis Armstrong's distinctive voice, giving rise to images of New Orleans and its streetcars and the River Walk and . . . of course, French toast a la Bananas Foster and beignets and croissants and mint juleps and . . . oh, yes, he was on a roll. It would be a brunch to remember - a Crescent City extravaganza. He grabbed a napkin and began to make notes, trying to remember exactly where he'd saved his grandmother's recipe for _Pain Perdu_ , and . . .

He paused, his fingers going still between one word and the next, as he sank back into his seat at the bar and poured himself another drink, and remembered what he had deliberately been trying to forget - that day when Kevin had needed him so desperately and he had . . Oh, my God! He had failed Kevin, had been so focused on trying to recapture the approval and live up to the expectations of his mother and live down any stereotypical images of his life with his husband, that he had left Kevin to deal with bitter rejection and betrayal all on his own.

_Oh, my God!_

The realization was like a chunk of ice in the middle of his chest. He had never once tried to explain himself. He had just expected Kevin to understand and put his needs - Scotty's needs - ahead of his own. Just as he almost always managed to do. He had been supportive and sympathetic once he'd learned the truth, but he'd never once looked back to try to grasp how hurt Kevin had been and how alone he must have felt.

And now he was forced to examine something more. It had happened then - and how many more times?

How often had he and Kevin's entirely family just assumed that Kevin could handle whatever pain might be dealt to him? How often had they all just left him on his own, to cope as best he could?

He remembered that day, remembered it in infinite detail, and remembered - now - what he had deliberately chosen not to see at the time.

It was obvious from the moment of their arrival that Bertha and Wally were so delighted to be able to meet Kitty and Robert that they were willing to forgive any less-than-perfect aspects of the night. Almost. Bertha - being Bertha - had dropped her passive-aggressive comments about having to shift the reservation to the interior of the restaurant, rather than the terrace as originally planned, into every lull in the conversation. And spent every possible moment making it clear that her approval of this evening and of the company she was keeping was limited to the McAllisters. Kevin's arrival had barely registered enough to earn him a reserved greeting from the people who were supposed to be his in-laws; the people who were supposed to love his husband enough to want him to be happy. But it had been immediately obvious that their enjoyment of the evening would have been much more intense had they been able to exclude their son's partner from the occasion.

And Kevin . . . Scotty had known it from the moment he arrived - had known that something was wrong. That something was deeply, horribly wrong, and that Kevin was in pain. He had seen it and known it and done nothing, except hope and pray that Kevin would keep his whining to himself. So somebody had insulted him at the partnership announcement; so he hadn't been flattered and complimented as he felt he should be; so the evening had not been quite as stellar as he'd hoped. Was that any reason to come here and sulk? And then, on top of everything, to try to grab Scotty's hand and indulge in the kind of flagrant PDA that he always avoided? But this, of course, was different, wasn't it? This was his chance to shove their relationship in the faces of the in-laws - to impress upon them that they had no say in the life choices of their son or who he chose to live it with.

What a ridiculous, juvenile display of selfishness!

And then to say the things he said to Scotty's mother! To his mother, for God's sake! Okay, so she had been a little transparent in her attempts to snub Kevin. So she had been a tad rude in making it obvious that she was perfectly capable of adoring Kevin's sister and her husband, but not so much Kevin himself. After all, what had he done to make her care for him? What had he done . . .

Sweet Jesus! What had he done? He had proposed to and married her son. He had supported him and given him a home and understanding and encouragement when no one else would. He had been there for him whenever he needed him.

He had loved him. That's what Kevin had done for her son. And he had even gone so far as to go - himself - in person, to try to convince Wally and Bertha to attend their commitment ceremony. And why had he done that? Certainly not for himself. No. He had done it for Scotty, and endured rejection and scorn and pettiness for his efforts.

That was what Kevin had done to earn the respect and, at the very least, the courtesy of Wally and Bertha Wandell.

But that wasn't what he'd gotten, was it? No. As a reward, he'd been treated like a pariah, like someone whose presence could barely be tolerated, like someone who didn't deserve common courtesy.

OK, so he'd forgotten to make the hotel reservation that he was supposed to make.

Did that warrant the ugliness to which he'd been subjected?

Later that night, he had told Scotty what had happened, and Scotty had been appropriately sympathetic and supportive.

But . . .

Oh, my God! He had never once - not that night, and not in all the time since - told Kevin that he was sorry for how he'd been treated at the restaurant that night, for all the pseudo-nasty rudeness that his mother had thrown at him. And Kevin . . . Kevin had never once expressed how hurt he must have been.

Because that was Kevin. That was what he did.

He was far from perfect, and he made plenty of mistakes, for which he always accepted the blame. 

Even . . . Oh, my God! Even when the blame wasn't really his. Is that what this was? He Kevin come to the point where he shouldered all the blame for everything that had gone wrong in their lives? Had he lost the ability to determine what really was his own fault, and what had come from others - from his family, or from Scotty himself.

Because . . . Jesus Christ! Plenty of the blame was Scotty's. As in any relationship, there was plenty of blame to go around. Only . . . Scotty - and Kevin's family - had been so busy trying to absolve him of the responsibility for what had happened, that they managed to shift the entire burden elsewhere.

Could it really be that Kevin now believed that it was all down to him? 

Saul bustled in from the kitchen, pushing a cart bearing a selection of luncheon wines and paused to restock a section of the bar.

"The first rush will be in soon," he said with a smile, trying to ignore the shadows he could see in Scotty's eyes. It was time the young man began to step back from the brink of sadness and regain his composure. Kevin would come crawling home, in due time. He didn't have it in him to stay away. He was much too needy, too dependent on Scotty's support. "Best get ready."

Scotty stood up and carefully removed his chefs' hat and his jacket and draped them across the back of the bar stool. "I'm taking the day off," he said softly. "I'm sure you can handle it."

"Oh, Scotty, for God's sake," Saul snapped. "It's time to pick yourself up, and stop sulking around like a teen-ager. That's what Kevin does - not you. When he gets back, he needs to see that you managed to function just fine without him. Then maybe he'd think twice before he . . ."

"Before he what, Saul?" The older man went very still, unaccustomed to hearing the level of ice in Scotty's voice. "Before he decides to leave again? Now why on earth would he do that? Because we're all so fucking perfect, and he can't live up to us? Because he doesn't deserve us? Because . . ."

"Stop it. Stop talking like that. He won't be gone that long and . . ."

"Wrong, Saul." There was no uncertainty in the young man's voice. "I think you're wrong. I don't think he's ever coming back. I mean - think about it. Why would he?"

And with that, he was out the door and down the street, leaving Saul to stare at the mottled morning sunlight streaking through the mullioned windows, and scoff at what he'd said.

Never coming back? How ridiculous was that!

Saul deliberately began to set up tables for the lunch crowd, not allowing himself to consider the possibility of what Scotty had said.

Kevin would come back. It was silly to think otherwise. He would come back, because . . . because he . . .

He didn't allow himself to complete the thought.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~  
tbc


	5. What Time Takes Away

Chapter 5: What Time Takes Away

_Time takes it all, whether you want it to or not. Time takes it all, time bears it away, and in the end there is only darkness. Sometimes we find others in that darkness, and sometimes we lose them there again._

\-- _The Green Mile_ \-- Stephen King

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

"I can't believe I'm doing this." 

Kevin took a deep breath and lifted his eyes to watch a hawk spiral down toward a distant tree on the other side of a broad meadow, and sought to settle his thoughts.

"And no one else would ever believe I would do this, which is exactly why . . ."

He looked down again, and didn't really want to admit to the tiny flutter of excitement that stirred within him. He was almost forty years old, for God's sake, and his life, of late, had hardly been conducive to the enjoyment of cheap thrills. So he definitely shouldn't be experiencing any kind of anticipatory spark over something like this.

On the other hand, there was a certain practical aspect to this situation which could not be ignored.

He needed transportation. Even in a town as small as Piper's Canyon, he needed a means to get from point A to point B in a finite period of time. And there was the additional unavoidable truth that no one - no matter how determined - could live out an entire life within the boundaries of such a small town. There would always be necessary errands that required venturing into neighboring urban or rural areas. And one remnant from his old life persisted into his new one: Kevin Walker (Wynter?) didn't ride busses.

Thus . . .

He had looked around when he'd gone into the city to sell his beloved Saab and found a number of possibilities, but none that he could afford to allow to catch his fancy, which was a fundamental element of the problem. He had a fondness for European cars with a certain degree of sports car flash, and anybody who knew him at all would know that. So the used but still prime Alfa Romeo, the slightly older BMW convertible, and the still older but carefully restored Jaguar which had caught his eye as he strolled past an import dealer's showroom would all probably serve the purpose and suit his taste, but might well betray his identity if anyone looked too closely. There was also the fact that they were all somewhat more expensive than his self-imposed budget would allow; he had left LA with a substantial amount of cash to help with the establishment of a new life, but it would not last forever, especially since he would no longer be practicing the profession that had once been so lucrative for him. So he'd expanded his search, but without much luck. He'd glanced at Fords and Chevys and Toyotas and Hondas, but not a single one of them had ignited a spark of interest.

But this - he wasn't sure he could do this, but he was growing surer by the moment that he wanted to give it a try.

It had been years - more years than he cared to remember - since he'd last slung his leg over the massive body of a powerful motorcycle, but, to his surprise, the memory of the sensation came back easily as he took the leap and set himself astride the 2007 Harley-Davidson Road King Classic.

It wouldn't have been remotely possible if he were still practicing the profession he'd trained for throughout his life; Armani suits and Gucci loafers were inappropriate for roaring around on a Harley. Thus it would mean discarding or, at the very least, packing away his current wardrobe, but that was not really an issue. He had already recognized the wisdom of doing so. It was foolish to dress to impress judge and jury and corporate clients while spending his days dealing with truck drivers and produce farmers and college students, and there was the added undeniable fact that he'd lost quite a bit of weight since his departure from LA, leaving him in need of a complete new wardrobe. So, out with the Ralph Lauren sports coats and the Versace dress shirts and in with Levis, biker boots, and a couple of minor indulgences perhaps. He thought he might splurge on a new leather jacket and a new pair of Ray-Bans.

As splurges went, it didn't feel like a big deal, and he figured he must have done something somewhere along the way to earn it, some moderately good deed that he could legitimately list on the plus side of his ongoing self evaluation, to stand alone and unimpressive against all the ugly things that formed the endless string of items on the minus side.

Of course, in truth he already owned a perfectly good leather jacket, a classic Etro model that retailed in the neighborhood of $3,000.00, but it was actually too perfect, so soft and supple and perfectly tailored that it would almost shout "Money" to anyone who took anything more than a casual look. No, he would need the real thing - an authentic motorcycle jacket, perhaps a Mossi or a Joe Rocket, a classic design, well made and comfortable, but affordable.

Just this once, even fate seemed to have decided to give him a break, if only a small one. Then he flinched away from that thought, remembering that his good fortune had come at the expense of someone else's terrible tragedy. The Harley that seemed to fit so perfectly between his legs had originally belonged to a young man named Neil Grady, the only son of an elderly couple who owned a small vineyard off Route 41. The father, Albert, was something of a local legend, known for the reliable production - year after year - of a superior crop of a rare species of carnelian grapes, highly prized by local vintners. His wife, Evelyn, was gifted in a different way, skilled in the growing and use of herbs and the practice of a very elementary, down-to-earth style of holistic medicine, a woman admired and trusted - not just tolerated - by members of the local medical establishment.

They had been together for over 40 years, content in their marriage, enjoying what they considered to be the gifts God had given them and accepting those He had chosen to withhold. Their modest, happy life had taken an unexpected but joyous turn when they were blessed with a child late in life, when Evelyn was well past what she laughingly referred to as her "sell-by date", long after they'd given up hope of offspring. Thus, Neil had become the center of their lives from the date of his birth, adored, treasured, and brought up to be a fine, healthy, well-behaved young man, albeit slightly spoiled, secure in the knowledge that he was much loved. By the time he'd graduated from the local high school, with honors, the Gradys had managed to scrape together enough money to send him off to Gavilan College in the town of Gilroy where Evelyn's brother was a practicing veterinarian who could provide housing for Neil, sparing the Gradys the necessity for finding the cash to cover that expense. Money was tight, as always, but they managed. Because the young man had been a gifted athlete in high school, he enrolled in a physical education program and planned to return to his home town to become a high school coach.

Having learned much about potions and herbal cures from his mother, he found it easy to obtain part-time employment in a local drug store where the chief pharmacist tried to convince him to switch his major to pharmaceutical science, but Neil remained adamant. He wanted to teach. Initially, the job appeared to be a huge blessing; only in retrospect would it be recognized as the curse it turned out to be.

The work provided the funds for Neil to support himself without ever having to go to his parents for additional money to pay for his books, unexpected educational fees and other incidental expenses. Frugal by nature, he managed to put aside enough of his earnings to combine with an inheritance from his maternal grandmother and realize a lifelong dream - the purchase of an almost new Harley Davidson Road King, deep crimson and black, a powerful version of that classic model that allowed him the freedom to travel to his home almost every week-end and explore the areas around Gilroy during his free time on weekdays.

Which led, inevitably, to a growing acquaintance with other cyclists in the area and their culture. And their habits.

Neil was an honorable, decent individual; that would never change. But he was also very young and naïve and unprepared for dealing with temptations never before encountered.

During the autumn of his freshman year, he arrived at his parents' door every Friday evening without fail, but by Christmas, he had begun to find excuses to stay away occasionally, and by the beginning of the summer, he found more and more to occupy his time and seldom came home at all.

Albert and Evelyn were concerned, of course, noticing that he was much quieter than usual when he did make it home, often seeming preoccupied and even slightly sullen, but they both believed that he had earned the right to keep private things private, so they put it down to the stress of a heavy class load and working long hours and did not press him. But they worried more and more with every week-end that passed without his arrival.

It was October of his sophomore year, and the overdose of methamphetamines - the choice of recreational drugs among the local biker groups - only rendered him unconscious; it didn't kill him. But the chilly, rainy night spent in a forest glade - where his so-called biker buddies left him to sleep off his high - brought about the onset of pneumonia, and a violent allergic reaction to the medication that would have cured him cost him his life.

On the day after his funeral, his mother destroyed her small, lush herb garden, unearthing every single plant and then burning everything, including the small shack where she'd worked on her herbal remedies for more than thirty years. She then retired to her room, from which she would emerge only rarely thereafter, to bathe or to prepare simple meals for her husband.

Pancreatic cancer took her five months later.

Thus now there was only the father - a gaunt, shriveled old man who no longer tended his vineyard or much of anything else. Following the death of his wife, he had collected the pristine motorcycle which had been his son's pride and joy from the police impound facility where it had been stored since Neil's overdose and brought it back to the vineyard where he locked it away in a small barn. There it had remained, until now.

According to Albert, he simply couldn't stand to look at it any more or even to remember that it was there in the barn whenever he came near it; he just wanted it gone, but something in his voice made Kevin suspect that the old man had come very close to taking more drastic action - like loading it up in the old powerboat that sat beside a ramshackle garage up near the main house, and taking it out to drop it into the deepest part of the river. But good sense had prevailed, along with an increasing degree of financial desperation. According to rumor, the vineyard was close to bankruptcy, and the several thousand dollars - in cash - that Kevin would place in the man's hands would help him to avoid the inevitable - for a while.

Thus it was lucky for Kevin, in more ways than one. The cycle was in perfect condition, showing less than 13,000 miles on the odometer. Beyond that, Mr. Grady wanted nothing more than to be rid of it, and almost certainly would not want to be bothered with processing legal documents or transferring the certificate of title. Which was, of course, fine with Kevin, who was still in the process of establishing an alternative identity. He himself would process the paperwork in his own good time, when he was ready.

The documentation of his new life was coming along, but it wasn't quite complete yet. Soon he would have the necessary papers to identify himself as Andrew K. Wynter, born February 15, l975, to Marshall and Deborah Wynter, of Corvallis, Oregon. A very old, slightly unsavory contact - a woman named Marlene Hedges whom he'd encountered during one of his first cases after passing the bar and landing a job, a case involving a family dispute over the identity of an heir to a sizeable fortune - had sought and found an identity which Kevin could assume with a minimum of effort, and a few thousand dollars to cover "expenses". He had never been completely sure why he'd made an effort to stay in touch with Marlene; they didn't exactly travel in the same social circles, and her regard for the letter of the law was, at best, capricious, but he had liked her, despite any reservations about the shady nature of her character. He'd found her very bright, extraordinarily resourceful, and surprisingly funny. And now he was exceptionally glad that he had known where she was and how to reach her, for she had one characteristic that was vital to Kevin's peace of mind; the woman's discretion - once purchased - was inviolable. She had even spent some time in jail once or twice, for refusal to betray a client's confidence, and that kind of loyalty was beyond priceless in his current circumstances. 

The details did not match perfectly, of course; the little boy, who had died less than fifteen months after his birth, was two years too young, and his middle initial stood for Kyle - not Kevin - but the variations were trivial and manageable. The fact that Ms. Hedges had managed to find an appropriate child, even down to the not-so-common last name that he'd come up with on the spur of the moment, proved her skill in practicing her trade; the details of a fictitious life that she managed to document indicated a facility with computer usage and records manipulation that few could duplicate; and finally, the fact that she had never once asked why he needed to leave his old life behind and establish a completely new one demonstrated her understanding of human nature and an uncommon respect for privacy. Her work and his patience would pay off handsomely in the end, but nothing could be done rashly. Thus, Kevin had yet to receive the final documents, so a few extra weeks to complete everything before registering a new vehicle in his new name would avoid any necessity to rush. And he didn't much like rushing these days; there was just too much at stake.

He adjusted his position on the cycle's seat slightly and started the motor. Ignition was instant and smooth, and the rumble of the powerful engine was deep and throaty, almost seeming to speak to him. Which was a thoroughly stupid notion, of course, but one he couldn't quite reject.

With hardly a second thought, he turned and waved to Belinda Bell who had been kind enough to drive him out to the vineyard. She nodded and drove off, immediately recognizing what he had not quite admitted to himself just yet. He and the bike were made for each other; the fact that it brought up old memories was mostly immaterial. Mostly.

These days, he didn't care much for dwelling in the past, but sometimes . . . sometimes, it was unavoidable. And occasionally, if he was very lucky, something inspired him to reach back to a time that was untainted by the mistakes he'd made so recently; a time before coming face to face with the end of his life as he'd known it.

Sometimes . . .

He would always remember Danny McCullough as his first - many different kinds of first, in fact - especially the kind that hurts so much and grows so deep and inflicts so much pain until one day it's just . . . gone. That was when he had learned a huge lesson, when he'd first realized the meaning of the word 'crush'. So Danny McCullough had been his first - first boy kiss, first mutual hand job, first blow job, first boy-on-boy sex - first love - or so he'd believed at the time. Only later would he come to understand that he had not really loved Danny. That honor had been reserved for another. And the very minute his backside settled into the seat of that beautiful crimson machine, it was all there in his mind, like a movie playing out on some kind of mental I-Max - huge and bright and unforgettable.

It had happened during his first year of law school at Stanford, when he had been engaged in a struggle to separate himself from the family circus that had become increasingly unpleasant and chaotic as he'd reached his majority. Since being outed by his sister at a family Christmas dinner when he was just sixteen years old, a dinner that had subsequently gone down in infamy as the last time his father had ever looked at him with anything other than contempt, everything had changed for him. His mother had, of course, supported him completely, joining PFLAG, and donating time and money to the Human Rights Commission, and participating - loud and long - in Gay Pride rallies and marches, but somehow, in the midst of her zeal to demonstrate her acceptance of all that he was, he had been transformed from the beloved son he had been before into a Liberal Cause Célèbre - capitalization intended. 

When he thought about his relations with his siblings, he was constantly amazed that they all seemed to believe that everything was fine. Throughout his life, Kevin had been the negotiator, the diplomat, the strategist, the peacemaker, and - when necessary - the shoulder to cry on. His had always been the quiet voice of reason, the logical mind that could find a way out of any potential disaster, the go-to guy who always had or knew how to find the solution for any problem, even if his views and suggestions were sometimes couched in a charming naiveté. It was who he was.

After the excruciating occasion of his outing, his role in the family dynamic seemed to remain unchanged, but somehow, in the shared process of growing up, none of his siblings took time to notice that while his ability to advise and resolve and fix things steadily increased, any interdependence on his other family members gradually dwindled away to nothing. In the end, he just stopped turning to anyone else for any form of help. Among the crowd of his family, he lived practically alone.

Later, he would wonder if that accounted for how easily he fell under the spell of Darren Cassidy, his real first love.

Most of the habits, hobbies, and pastimes he had accrued over the years of his childhood stayed in Pasadena when he struck out to distance himself from his family, and he was surprised to find that there was very little he missed about his ancestral home. Oh, no one in his right mind would pretend not to experience occasional longings for his mother's cooking or their rare shared moments of fond communication, sipping coffee together at the kitchen cabinet, when she would listen to him with love glowing in her eyes and they could find common ground for gentle laughter. But other than those momentary lapses, he found that he really only missed one thing. He still loved tennis, albeit it took some adjusting to play without Sarah beside him.

It was strange to realize that the single best relationship with any of his siblings had developed and thrived on the tennis court, where he and Sarah were almost uncannily attuned to each other. That was the one thing he really did miss.

So perhaps it was simple fate that led to a chance meeting on a tennis court, where he was looking for a partner for a casual match. The first thing he noticed was a lovely British accent, followed by robust laughter; the next thing was a classically handsome face, with a perfect profile, irresistible dimples, eyes that were either brilliant green or turquoise blue depending on one's perspective and the angle of the light, crowned by a thick thatch of coppery hair that curled around perfect ears and at the nape of the neck. Beneath the face was a lean, athletic body that filled out tennis shorts and a slightly disreputable Beatles t-shirt to perfection.

And most perfect of all was the immediate glow of interest in those incredible sea change eyes - a glow that sharpened and deepened as a mutual acquaintance did the honors.

They had started by playing tennis all afternoon, followed that up by a breathtaking spin on Darren's Harley up into the hills, and proceeded to spend the night - the first of many - in each other's arms in Kevin's grungy little apartment.

It had been true first love, for both of them.

In one way, it had lasted fifteen months; in another, it had lasted forever.

Kevin shook himself slightly, realizing that he had been sitting silent and motionless for far too long as the bike rumbled beneath him, wondering how long Mr. Grady would be ruled by good manners and suppress a grumble about strangers coming to his home and wasting his time.

"I'll take it," Kevin said. "Unless you're having second thoughts."

"Nope. But you don't even know what I'm asking for it."

Kevin simply shook his head. He couldn't shake off the feeling that he was taking advantage of a broken-hearted father's grief, so it really didn't matter how much . . .

"Four thousand dollars," said the elderly man. "Reckon that's reasonable."

Kevin took a deep breath. "No, Mr. Grady. It's not. In fact, it's ridiculous. It's worth at least twice that much. So, if you have no objections . . ." He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out an envelope. "There's eight thousand in here, and I think I'm still getting a bargain. So if you'll just sign over the title . . ."

The old man was staring at him as if he'd suddenly grown scales and horns. "I'm not sure what to think of you, Mr. Wynter," he said finally. "Why on earth would you just fork over twice the amount I asked for and act like it's the most natural thing in the world?"

Kevin's smile was gentle. "Because it's the right thing to do. Look, I know how hard this must be for you - that your life is nothing like what you expected it to be now. And I won't claim to be able to understand your pain, but I do know a little about losing the things you love the most, and . . . and there's no excuse for taking advantage of people's heartache. The bike is worth every dime I'm offering - and probably more. So you either accept my offer, or I'll just say good-bye, and start walking."

There were suddenly tears welling in Grady's eyes as he studied Kevin's face. "You're a fine young man, Mr. . . ."

"Call me Kevin."

The old man nodded. "Kevin, then. You're a fine young man, Kevin, and I wish . . . I think my son would have liked you very much."

Kevin could only nod, understanding that he had just been paid the highest form of compliment.

Ten minutes later, he was on the road, wearing the slightly scratched but perfectly serviceable cycle helmet that had belonged to the bike's previous owner. The sun was sinking in the west, and, with just a tiny effort, he found that he could imagine himself younger and leaner and stronger, with a slender, well-muscled body pressed against his back, and a beloved voice yelling in his ear or laughing in the sheer exultation of two young men - in love, healthy, and riding free on the wind.

The memory was incredibly sweet; then it shifted and became even sweeter as the specter behind him morphed into a different body - a perfect, sculpted, intimately familiar body, and he imagined that he could almost catch a hint of the natural fragrance that was unique to Scotty, could almost feel those beloved hands slipping beneath his jacket and caressing his torso, could almost hear that purring, rich-as-chocolate voice calling his name.

He pretended not to notice the tears that welled suddenly in his eyes.

This trip would be relatively short - back to his new life, to the small but adequate loft apartment above the pub, where he would have just time enough to change into appropriate clothing for his stint behind the bar, where he was learning how to make Cosmos and Rob Roys and Mojitos, according to the taste of the patrons who had welcomed the new bartender with warmth and easy camaraderie.

Kevin Wynter - bartender extraordinaire, even though he still had to refer to a frayed text called The Craft of the Cocktail for regular guidance. But he was learning and the customers were patient and laid back and generally not in a hurry, except for the occasional curmudgeon whom his boss - Belinda - urged him to ignore. For the most part, as long as he served their drinks with a diffident smile, the clientele seemed content.

He wasn't, of course; not yet. And he wasn't sure he ever would be, but he was trying to fit in, trying to find his own space. Some days he seemed to gain an inch or two of forward progress; others he seemed to slide all the way back to zero. But he endured.

He had one particular thing left to do - one contact still to make, but he knew that he had to wait until all his arrangements were complete. Even then, he realized he would have to act despite powerful misgivings. If he handled it well, it would give him the one final thing he needed to be able to achieve a certain peace of mind. If he screwed it up, it would mean that he'd have to start all over, and he wasn't sure he had the courage.

Sometimes, he felt really, really old.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ 

Ordinarily, Café 429 enjoyed a bit of a lull between the late lunch crowd and the early-birds arriving for dinner, but it was almost never completely still at this hour of the afternoon.

It felt very strange, and Scotty stood gazing out into the main body of the restaurant, remembering how he had once enjoyed moments like this. Moments when he could be alone with his thoughts, which always seemed to wander in the same direction - imagining what his husband might be doing in his office, just a few steps away, or - better still - in the apartment upstairs. In that private space, Kevin might be sprawled on the sofa, enjoying a cold beer and listening to his _Wicked_ cd, or maybe watching a DVD. _Breakfast at Tiffany's_ , perhaps or _My Fair Lady_. Kevin had always had a weakness for Audrey Hepburn.

Such thoughts would inevitably lead to vivid images of what would come later, of how they would come together to share conversations and laughter and kisses and, finally, fall into each other's arms to sleep - or not.

They had been so deeply in love. And now . . .

He shifted suddenly, deliberately shrugging out of those melancholy memories. However much he might have enjoyed these moments of solitude in the past, he didn't like them now. Not at all. The silence was just silence - empty and echoing and serving only to remind him of what no longer lay in wait when the day was over.

There would be no dinner crowd tonight. He had personally taken care of canceling all reservations, with a vague explanation about a family emergency, and given the entire staff the night off - with pay - and the sign on the door read, "Closed for private engagement".

Saul had protested, of course; loudly. But Scotty had been adamant.

It was time for the Walker clan to sit down together and come to an understanding, and it had become increasingly obvious over the last weeks that he was the only person who had any interest in making it happen. Everyone else seemed willing to just accept the status quo, and console themselves with some vague, unfocused assurances that "It would all work out in the end."

In other words, they all chose to assume that Kevin would come crawling home sooner rather than later, that he would eventually find a way to hang himself, given sufficient rope, and have no alternative but to slink back begging forgiveness.

The problem with that, of course, was that Scotty didn't want him to hang himself; he wanted him home - yes - but safe and whole and undamaged and unburdened by a guilt that was not his to bear; thus he could no longer tolerate the smug assumptions of those who were supposed to know better and care more.

It was, therefore, time for the figurative Last Supper. Or maybe it wouldn't be so figurative at all; he wasn't sure. But he was sure that he was doing what had to be done, for his own peace of mind, if nothing else, and he couldn't afford to worry about the consequences. He had prepared carefully, researched completely, and thought it all through, assembling his evidence in a logical, unemotional manner.

Now it was time to present his case, but he would do it his own way, in the manner most familiar to him.

The family was coming to dinner - all of them. Even Tommy would be flying in from Seattle for the occasion, and Sarah had agreed to bring Paige along, at Scotty's request. He could tell that she had been less than enthusiastic about the idea, but she had not argued, and he was certain that it was necessary to include everyone in the family who had played any sort of role in the current state of affairs. Thus, the only family members who would not be present were Evan, Kitty's son who was still too young to be part of the ongoing drama; Cooper, Paige's brother who was not quite old enough to grasp the nuances of the situation; and Elizabeth, legal daughter of Tommy and biological offspring of Kevin, currently residing with her mother in Seattle and safely beyond the impact of developing events.

Scotty poured himself a glass of chardonnay, noting with a rueful smile that he was taking a page from the Walker family operating manual. Loins were always best girded with a wine chaser.

He savored the bittersweet taste as he looked over the meal he had prepared, taking note of how much things had changed since Kevin had departed from his life.

In the past, whenever Scotty had prepared a meal for the family, he had concentrated on serving up the dishes that Kevin loved most, and his husband's taste had always run to comfort foods. Although perfectly capable of appreciating fine haute cuisine, Kevin had always been more content with a simple, perfect meat loaf or a pot of beef/vegetable soup. Or a chicken pot pie.

Scotty sighed, and rubbed at his eyes with clumsy fingers, refusing to consider that the thought of that particular favorite of his husband's could bring him to tears. And that he would probably never be able to prepare that special dish again - not unless . . .

He drew a deep breath and turned his attention back to the food he had prepared. In truth, he knew he had not really been paying as much attention as he should, although he couldn't detect any problems as he lifted lids and sampled the chicken Wellington with mushroom veloute sauce, the wild rice Florentine, and the bacon sweet pea salad. Nevertheless, he still wondered if he should spruce everything up a bit, adding garnishes of tomato wedges and sliced scallions, or maybe going so far as to prepare a colorful platter of vegetable crudités - just in case.

It was silly to be so nervous; he had done this dozens - perhaps even hundreds of times. In fact, since he and Kevin had made their relationship official via their commitment ceremony, he had cooked for the family at least as often as Nora, and perhaps even more; often enough surely to know exactly what always played well at the family table. Thus, he lifted the baking sheet with its two dozen perfectly shaped and risen croissants and transported it to the oven, fairly sure that this one thing, at least, would live up to its advance publicity.

He would not spare a single thought about how much a certain person had always raved about his croissants. He couldn't afford to dwell on such things, or he'd find himself unable to cook anything at all - ever. The same applied to the apple cake with caramel sauce that was sitting on the island, waiting for a final swirl of glaze and sprinkle of nuts, and a second dessert choice of poached pears with brown sugar glaze.

A glance toward the bar revealed a platter heaped with shrimp puffs - an elegant appetizer - and four bottles of a lovely Tosca Pinot Grigio which would be perfectly chilled at the right moment. He had also prepared a pitcher of iced tea for Paige and Justin.

It was done, and he was as ready as he'd ever be. Try as he might, he couldn't think of another thing he could do to make the meal more perfect. And it really needed to be perfect, because, God knew, the conversation would be anything but.

He took a few moments to remove his apron and step into the men's room to wash his face and change into the shirt he'd hung there earlier, automatically checking the pocket to make sure it contained the folded paper he would need later. He tried to make some order out of the wild tumble of his hair. He had begun, of late, running rough fingers through the thick locks whenever he was frustrated and/or upset. And he was frustrated and/or upset a lot. There was also the fact that he needed a haircut, but just hadn't been able to work up any enthusiasm for taking care of such a mundane chore.

What did it matter, after all? Who would be there to notice - or care?

He wasn't blind, of course, or obtuse. The fact that many eyes - sometimes very hungry eyes - followed him almost constantly when he walked down the street or across the restaurant was not lost on him. But he remained uninterested. He couldn't remember the last time he'd bothered to spare a glance for another man with even a tiny nuance of interest. And that was a complete change in the way he'd lived his life. He'd always enjoyed looking; his husband had enjoyed it as well, and therein lay the catch. The real fun in looking was in talking it over and laughing about it together, both secure in the certainty that looking would not progress to anything more. And now, without Kevin, it just wasn't worth the effort, because . . .

What did it matter? No one would ever look or feel or taste or . . .

He quickly rejected that thought and walked back out into the kitchen, determined that he would not greet his guests with eyes red from weeping.

Perfect timing, he thought, as the café's front door opened to admit the first arrivals; Saul, Tommy, and Nora, of course. He would have expected no less of them. Justin would be along shortly, leaving Sarah and Luc, with Paige, and Kitty and Seth (and he was still trying to get his head around that May/December liaison) to bring up the rear.

A single beat of silence as the new arrivals approached the beautifully appointed table made Scotty wonder if he'd made a huge mistake. It wasn't as if he couldn't recall Walker family dinners that had been major disasters. Such as the infamous al fresco feast when Nora had revealed the identity of William's mistress. Or the bloodbath at Ojai when he had offered an opinion about Kevin's reluctance to provide sperm for artifical insemination for his brother. He shuddered briefly; that was a thought he'd rather not have had.

There'd been many others, too - some in his presence; some not. But he'd heard all the gory details one way or another, mostly from Kevin's perspective but sometimes from Justin or Sarah or Saul. And now . . . well, he'd thought he was ready for anything, but he really didn't know if he could endure one of those painful occasions when no one knew what to say or how to say it.

But then he realized he should have known better as Nora began to exclaim over the aromas wafting in from the kitchen, and Saul hurried in to sample the menu while Tommy moved behind the bar to pour himself a generous serving of single malt whiskey in a brandy snifter. He then took a seat at the bar, whiskey bottle close at hand.

"Think I'll keep this nearby," he announced with a tiny smile directed toward Scotty. "Some things are best endured with a bit of liquid courage."

"Oh, Tommy, don't be ridiculous," said Nora, taking a seat beside him. "This is just a family dinner - and high time, too. Scotty needs to be able to feel that his place in this family hasn't changed. That we love him and plan to help him get through this, so he'll be standing tall and strong and resolute when . . . well, when Kevin stops . . . well, when he remembers where he belongs, and who he belongs to."

If Nora expected a sheepish, grateful smile from Scotty as a response to her assurances, she was doomed to disappointment. He said nothing, and he certainly didn't smile; instead, he simply stared at her, and something in his eyes hinted at ice floes buried within the blue.

Without offering a response, he turned and moved back into the kitchen to speak to Saul. "I thought we'd do this home-style," he said as he opened the oven door to check on his croissants. "If you'd like to help me dish everything out, we'll be all set by the time the fashionably late members of the group arrive."

Saul, picking up on a nuance of . . . something in Scotty's words, went very still for a moment, and turned to study his business partner's face. "You okay?" he asked finally.

The young chef mustered up a lopsided smile. "What's the phrase - as well as can be expected? I think that's probably the best way to put it."

Saul took a deep breath, moving close so he could lower his voice and still be heard. "Scotty, you've got to pull everything together, and let the healing begin. And forgive yourself. Punishing yourself isn't the answer, and moping over it isn't going to do anyone any good - not even Kevin. Because you surely realize that he has to learn . . ."

"What?" It was sharp as a blade, and sheathed in glacial ice. "What exactly do you think my husband needs to learn, Saul, and how exactly do you propose we 'teach' him, as you so obviously think we should?"

"That's not what I said."

This time, it was Scotty who smiled, but there was no trace of warmth in it. "No? Funny, but that's how it sounded to me. Now, do you think we can just agree to a temporary truce, and get this food on the table where I hope we can engage in a little light, pleasant conversation. For a while, at least."

"But . . ."

"Whoa, Scotty." Justin came bounding into the kitchen and threw a friendly arm around his brother-in-law's shoulders, and Scotty thought he'd never in his life been so glad to be interrupted, and noted that Justin was in every bit as much need for a haircut as he was. It was somehow comforting. "What's all this? It looks like dinner at the White House, or something."

Scotty's smile, this time, was genuine. "So says the man who thinks beans and franks should be on the menu at Spago."

"So? I have eclectic tastes. Can't help myself. But I can help you, if you want. What do you need me to do?"

"You can tend bar, if you like. Just until I finish up the last of my prep. Everything should be good to go by the time the college crowd arrives."

At that moment, Sarah, Luc, and Paige made their grand entry, and it was typical Walker pandemonium for a while - oohing and aahing over Paige's very first Dolce & Gabbana frock, an adorable flouncy swirl of warm, bright colors; listening to Sarah's lament over the frantic pace of her day and the completely unprofessional attitudes of some of her employees, all accompanied by Luc's gentle remonstrations over her complete lack of patience; the loud, 'look-at-me' arrival of Kitty and Seth, she in her typical Vera Wang sheath and stilettos and he in comfortable jeans and a colorful Tommy Hilfiger polo, smiling down on her as she related the latest incident in her classroom to illustrate the completely ridiculous liberal bias of her students.

It was a Walker family dinner at its most characteristic.

For a while.

The food was excellent, judging by the way everyone dug in and cleaned their plates and asked for more, and the conversation, almost without exception, managed to dance successfully around the pink elephant in the room.

Until dinner was done, dessert had been served and consumed, and it was time to finish the wine. All during the meal, Scotty, from his place at the head of the table (with the foot of the table left conspicuously empty) had taken part in all of the conversations, avoiding only the brief, snarky political exchanges that always seemed to erupt between Nora and Kitty. He had been charming and witty, attentive and reasonable. He had been everything that a perfect host should be, offering opinions on the latest Matt Damon film, and the new bakery opening up across the street, and the latest developments with Nora's charity work. He'd even managed to appear to be enjoying the conversation.

The only thing he had not been . . . was himself. There was plenty of laughter all through the meal, and vocal appreciation of his efforts, and he'd smiled a lot, but it had never really touched his eyes.

When it was done and the last dessert fork had been laid aside, he raised his glass and took a moment to look each of them in the eye, and everyone responded by taking a deep breath . . . and holding it. They all knew that the moment was at hand - that it was time to come to the point.

It started innocently enough.

"To absent friends," he said solemnly, lifting his glass and waiting for them all to lift theirs before drinking.

Then he deliberately set his glass down and stood up, pausing for a moment to collect his thoughts, and allowing the silence around him to deepen. Scotty was not a public speaker or a politician, and had no interest of ever becoming either. But he knew how to play a room - a little trick he'd picked up from a certain person who had, so far tonight, remained nameless.

"I imagine that you all had to recharge your cell phones today, because you've undoubtedly been indulging in endless speculation over why I asked you here tonight. And you were right to wonder, because I did have a specific purpose in mind. I hope you will all bear with me while I work through what I have to say, and I think it only fair to tell you that I'm not really in the mood to argue about the conclusions I've reached. When I'm finished, I'm really finished.

"First of all, you should know that my search for Kevin . . ." He paused to draw a deep, shuddering breath and clear his throat before he could continue. "My search for Kevin has been mostly unsuccessful. The investigators that have been looking for him have found very little. You all know that he transferred everything into my name before he left and that he removed a substantial amount of cash from his investment account to take with him. I also told you that he sold his car. He accepted payment for it in the form of a cashier's check which he cashed that same day. That was over three weeks ago, and that's the last thing anybody has been able to turn up. He left all his credit cards and ATM cards here when he took off, and there's been no financial activity of any kind on any of our joint accounts. A thorough search by members of his old law firm indicates that he doesn't have any other accounts tucked away anywhere. In addition, there's no indication that he's used his legal license to set up a new practice. Definitely not in California, and probably nowhere else. In this day of internet accessibility, it's almost impossible to engage in any kind of professional practice and keep it incognito"

Nora folded her hands, and only Scotty noticed that her knuckles were white from the strength of her grip. "But how will he . . ."

Scotty's face was like granite. "He's Kevin Walker, for God's sake, and he's been taking care of himself his whole life, so I think it's safe to assume that he'll figure out a way to make a living."

"Or maybe not," said Saul dryly. "He might just decide to live off of what he took from your joint accounts."

"Really, Saul?" Scotty's voice was very soft - and very cold. "This is California. Exactly how long do you think $200,000 will last. And by the way, when you talk about our 'joint accounts', you make it sound like he ran off with my money, when the simple truth is that (A) it was _our_ money and (B) when you get right down to the nitty-gritty, it was mostly Kevin's money - his share of the proceeds from the Narrow Lake sale. And it should be obvious to you that he left a lot more than he took. So I don't want to hear another word that makes it sound like he took something from me. He never took anything from me, and somehow you've all managed to turn things around in your head to ignore the fact that it was me - it was _me_ \- who took something from him.

"Frankly, I've been more than a little confused by your actions. In the beginning - when Kevin first found out about what I'd done - I was so miserable and lost and alone that I was desperate to have somebody take my side. Somebody besides my mother, I mean, who treated the news that Kevin and I had separated like it was cause for celebration, which hurt more than you can begin to imagine. It was Kevin's forgiveness I wanted - and yours. And when I began to see signs that you were willing to grant it, I was amazed and delighted and so grateful." He looked up then and spent a moment meeting the eyes of everyone around the table.

"I still appreciate your affection and your willingness to absolve me, but . . ." Another deep breath. "But lately I've been re-examining things and coming at it from a different perspective. I've reread Kevin's letter, and noticed details that I didn't notice before - probably because I was too devastated to take it all in. I've even done a little research of my own, and what I found . . . what I found, quite frankly, scares the shit out of me."

To a person, everyone around the table went wide-eyed. Scotty almost never indulged in profanity, which led them all to believe that something must be very, very wrong.

"I want you to listen, now," he said, a definite tremor in his voice. "Really listen, and think about what you hear."

The folded paper he extracted from his shirt pocket was frayed and obviously much used, and he unfolded it with something approaching reverence.

"I won't read it all. Frankly, a lot of it is none of your business. But some of it you should all hear." 

He cleared his throat before beginning to read.

_"It's hard to admit that I was harboring a childish desire for somebody - even if it was just one person - in my family to express some kind of anger over what you did. I just couldn't understand why they all seemed to deal with it so easily - to forgive so quickly what I found impossible to forgive at all. But the simple truth is that I was looking at it from the wrong direction, another habit of a lifetime. The truth is that they weren't angry with you; they were angry with me."_

He paused then and looked around to evaluate the effect - if any - those words had had on his audience. He was gratified to note that there were traces of shock in their eyes and grief in their expressions.

Glad to see that they were, at least, listening, he continued.

_"So we come to the hardest part of all - the thing that I can no longer refuse to face. The truth is that I am never going to become the man you need and deserve. That would require a fundamental change in who I am, and we both know I just don't have it in me. My family certainly knows it, and they'll be more than happy to explain if you ask them; they'll tell you exactly who I am and how skilled I've always been at not being there for anyone. I always wanted to believe that the self-absorbed, cynical contrarian was just a role I played, but it's not. It's who I am."_

He paused again then, momentarily too overcome to continue, and heard the soft, heart-rending sound of Nora weeping. Looking up, he found tears in the eyes of both Sarah and Justin. Everyone else refused to meet his gaze.

"Almost done now; only a couple of things left that concern you."

He cleared his throat and once more began to read. 

_"The family will come to you, demanding answers, because - well, that's what they do, isn't it? I know I'm taking the coward's way out here, which is exactly what they will expect. Not much point in disputing their judgment now, is there? In the end, they're right; I don't want to face them or deal with them any more."_

Carefully, he refolded the paper and continued, having no need to see the words to recite them. "The last part that you need to hear is something I don't have to read to recite. I will remember it verbatim, every day of my life, no matter how many years that might be.

_"I'm so tired of hurting the people I love, and I need to find a place where I won't be able to do that any more."_

The silence around the table was broken only by the muffled sound of Nora's weeping.

Until Saul decided to speak up. "Why . . ." He had to stop to clear his throat. "Why did you feel you had to read this to us, Scotty? Why . . ."

"I'm not finished," Scotty said abruptly. "And when I am, I doubt I'll feel like taking questions. You will all be free to talk among yourselves, of course, which - given the fact that you're all Walkers - is inevitable. But take my advice, please, and don't waste your breath trying to convince me that I'm wrong. Because I'm not.

"All through these long, empty weeks, while I've been trying to find a way to live without my husband, you've all bent over backwards to assure me that all will be well, that I've earned the right to be forgiven, and that Kevin is being selfish and foolish by refusing to grant me absolution.

"But let me remind you all of something - something that no one has ever brought up throughout this whole mess, and I have to ask myself if I'm the only one to wonder why."

He leaned forward then and focused directly on Sarah's face.

"A few years ago, before Kevin and I managed to overcome our troubles and find our way to the altar, Sarah went through a terrible experience. Her husband, Joe - who had previously filled the role of house-husband and primary caregiver to her children in order to allow Sarah to fulfill her destiny at Ojai Foods - did something unforgivable. Right?

"He kissed another woman. He kissed her - once. He didn't indulge in a make-out session. He didn't have clandestine meetings with her over supposed 'business lunches'. He didn't fuck her. He kissed her once. And the degree of betrayal of that simple slip-up might even have been mitigated by the fact that it was dear Rebecca that he kissed, and that she later admitted to instigating it. Have I got it straight so far?"

Eyes huge and filled with dread, Sarah's only response was a nod, while Paige sat still and white at her side, and Scotty momentarily regretted insisting that she be part of the group. But then he remembered that her actions - her choosing to treat him as the wounded party - had contributed to this entire mess, and he knew that he'd been right in the first place.

"Then let's continue, shall we? For that unforgivable sin - by Walker standards - Joe was completely ostracized by the entire family. No one would even speak to him, and when he tried to continue playing the role of Sarah's spouse - for her benefit - nothing changed. You all just closed ranks and let him know, in no uncertain terms, that what he'd done rendered him forever beyond any hope of forgiveness or redemption.

"But there was more to that story than met the eye, wasn't there, Sarah?"

By this time, Sarah's breathing had turned harsh and uneven. "Scotty, please . . ."

"Please what? Please don't mention that this was at a time when Sarah was indulging in a bit of extracurricular activity of her own, having occasional discreet one-on-one lunches with a business associate, who also happened to be a married man. But that little fact was never acknowledged in judging the seriousness of Joe's transgression, was it?"

Sarah closed her eyes. "How . . . how did you know?" she asked finally, barely audible.

"Kevin is my husband, Sarah, and your brother. And if you think he didn't know all about your little secret, then you don't know him half as well as you think you do. And maybe, that's what this is all about.

"So it's come to the moment of truth. I've thought about this a lot recently. I've remembered how viciously you all defended Sarah in that instance. In addition, there's all that stuff about vilifying Robert whenever he wasn't sufficiently devoted to sacrificing his own ambitions and needs for the sake of 'Poor Kitty'. And I've remembered how many times - God, I can't even begin to count them, and that's only the ones that I remember - Kevin stepped in and saved your asses. And yet . . . did you listen to what he said in his letter. Think about that - two things especially. That he only wanted someone - anyone - to be angry on his behalf, to resent the fact that I had sex with a 24-year-old scumbag because I was feeling neglected, like a spoiled child determined to be the center of attention. And the last thing of all, the thing that breaks my heart all over again every time I think of it.

"Listen to it. Close your eyes and listen, and hear it in his voice.

_"I'm so tired of hurting the people I love, and I need to find a place where I won't be able to do that any more."_

Scotty suddenly couldn't look at them any more, so he raised his eyes and stared at a Mark Lawrence abstract painting - all deep scarlet and sage green and amber angles and swirls - the painting that Kevin had bought for him to celebrate the opening of the café. It had been delivered the day after the big event, and Scotty had known a moment of bottomless shame, knowing he didn't deserve it, knowing he should refuse to accept it, but not knowing how to do it without hurting his husband more than he already had. Remembering that made him remember something else.

He had known what Kevin was enduring, had known that he was in pain and having trouble working through it. But knowing had not been enough to stop him from engaging in the betrayal that had now destroyed his marriage.

"I have spent weeks trying to figure it out. Why does Sarah deserve your unconditional approval and acceptance in her turmoil with her husband over a single, fucking kiss; why does Joe deserve to be found guilty and be ostracized by your family for the same reason, while Kevin . . . Kevin is allowed to conclude that my cheating - my blowjob in the storeroom of the very restaurant his money helped to buy for me - was all his fault, and his family is determined to force him to knuckle under and accept that blame? Why?"

He sighed then and forced himself to look once more into the faces around the table. Stunned faces, haunted faces, tear-stained faces.

When he spoke again, his voice was very soft, but his eyes were full of a deep, bottomless grief. "You've all convinced yourself that he's coming back - that he'll realize the error of his ways and come crawling home, begging to be taken in again, begging to be allowed to resume his role as the caretaker, the person you all depend on to fix what needs fixing while you go about your business and never bother to notice that sometimes, he's hurt. Sometimes, he needs someone else to fix something for him, in spite of the fact that he's the strongest person I've ever known.

"Well, let me set you straight. He's gone. My husband - who loved me like no one else ever could - is gone. And I don't think he's coming back. I think that I, with your help, have convinced him that everything he's ever done was wrong, that we're better off without him, and - from your perspective - that you're perfectly content to adopt me as a replacement.

"But know this, all of you. If I'm right, I will never forgive myself." He paused then, and looked down at his own wedding ring, which he still wore on his left hand, and its twin, which he now wore on his right. "And I don't think I'll ever forgive you."  


He waited then, waited for the outcry, for the outrage and the denials, for the rationalizing and the blame avoidance. He waited, but it did not come.

Thus, without a word, he began to clear the table, and wasn't even sure at what point the last of his guests departed, in complete silence. But when he did notice, he was grateful for the respite. He sat back down at the table and drained the last of the bottle of pinot grigio, and wondered where his husband might be, and what he might be doing, and - above all - if he was safe and finding some way to relieve his pain.

The loneliness was agony; the yearning for Kevin was like a fire in his soul; but the worst thing of all . . . was not knowing.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~  
tbc


	6. Out of Light

Chapter 6: Out of Light

_It can be a real long road;_  
_It can be a lonely night,_  
_When you're on your own,_  
_And you're running out of light. ___

__- _When The Time Is Right_ \-- Griffin House_ _

The plane was actually on time, an unexpected surprise for which Kevin was grateful. He had been unable to relax as he waited in the terminal - unable to dismiss thoughts of being intercepted by airport security and hauled off to jail as a possible terrorist threat when the powers-that-be discovered that his ID was bogus. This was the first official test of his new documents, and he couldn't help thinking that his precautions might not have been sufficient, that this could end very badly for him. 

__Didn't happen, and he should have been overwhelmed with a sense of relief. Apparently, in the eyes of the authorities in charge of airport security, who were by their very nature among the most vigilant defenders of public safety, the neat young man in Levi's and a deep blue, long-sleeved, Tommy Hilfiger rugby shirt was exactly who he claimed to be - Andrew K. Wynter, a bartender from the quaint little village of Piper's Canyon, California; height - 5' 11", weight - 168 lbs, black hair, blue eyes. Single._ _

__Odd, he thought. He had expected to be pleased to receive the documentation that would validate his newly minted vital statistics. And he had been - until he'd read the note that came with the various documents and learned that all of the official records, which were safely tucked away in various public information systems, would indicate that he had never been married._ _

__Scotty Wendell had been the center of his life for almost five years. And now he was gone. It had never mattered to either of them that the "marriage" was not "real" in the eyes of the law; that had not made it any less "real" to the two of them._ _

__Now he could invoke his impeccable logic in order to accept that it was better that way. No messy divorce to endure. No nasty details like property settlements or custody of the (non-existent) dog, or child sup . . . He felt something twist in his gut as that term erupted in his mind, invoking a pain that never seemed to go away, no matter how much time passed. He tried - and failed - not to remember the last call they'd received from Michelle on that fateful day that no one liked to recall; he always thought of it as "the day the earth stood still" - literally. She had sounded devastated and broken and ashamed, and he supposed he would always feel guilty for the anger that had exploded within him as he'd tried to digest the jumble of terms she was offering up as an explanation: unviable fetus, chromosomal abnormality, cervical effacement, faulty implantation, and - somehow most painful of all - spontaneous abortion. They didn't even call it a 'miscarriage' at that stage, but the bottom line was the same, no matter how it was phrased: no baby. Maybe that's why he'd been so angry; maybe that's why he'd never quite been able to forgive her, even though he knew, in his rational moments, that she was not to blame for the loss of the child that would have provided the final, permanent tie to cement his marriage to Scotty._ _

__He wished he could believe that Scotty had never identified his feelings for the woman who had done so much for them, in her attempt to be their surrogate; he wished that Scotty could have assumed that he was above such petty resentment. But he knew better. He'd never mentioned it, never said a single word, but Scotty had understood exactly what Kevin was feeling, and forgave him anyway. Which made the guilt just that much heavier to bear._ _

__When the boarding call was announced, he was grateful for the interruption of his maudlin musings. He sighed and picked up his carry-all - the only luggage he would need for his one-day stay - and removed his boarding pass from his shirt pocket. It was a relief to be moving, as an alternative to sitting and thinking, and he was determined that he would find something to occupy his mind during American Airlines flight #7059, from Sacramento to Seattle, which would take approximately one hour and fifty-two minutes, gate to gate. Maybe he'd watch a movie. He hadn't yet seen the newly-released DVD of Depp's last film, but he doubted it would be available on such a short domestic flight. So maybe he'd play a game on his laptop, but then he'd have to resist that almost overwhelming temptation to go to his personal files and browse through the hundreds of photographs stored there, the ones he knew he should delete - but couldn't. Okay, not that then, but he was so determined to occupy his time with some kind of mindless trivia that he almost hoped to wind up next to a chatty fellow traveler. That thought made him smile, as he was not ordinarily one to seek conversation with strangers._ _

Maybe he'd just turn on his Kindle and lose himself in one of the novels he'd recently downloaded. Maybe even Grossman's _To The End of The Land_ , but then he remembered the subject matter and realized that this was a place he wasn't ready to visit; he had his own flight from reality to deal with, without reading about a fictional one. So maybe he'd try the new Stephen King anthology. If he was very lucky, he'd become so entranced with the devious plot and colorful narrative that he'd forget to worry about what lay behind him - or what lay ahead of him. 

__The plane was not overly crowded, and he took his seat by the window, and gazed out across the bustling airport, watching idly as baggage handlers loaded the cargo bay with luggage bearing labels like Samsonite and American Tourister and even Louis Vuitton, although not so many of the last; this was still California, all right, but it was Sacramento - not LA. His own bag, a Gucci leather duffle, was stowed in the overhead compartment. He had debated trading it for something less showy - less obviously 'designer' - but had decided to hang on to it, realizing he could always say he'd picked it up at a garage sale._ _

__For a while, he thought he would have the seat to himself, but, boarding last and just making it through the closing hatch, a young man came strolling down the aisle, stowed a tattered canvas bag in the overhead, and sat down beside Kevin with a warm smile. Green eyes, dark hair with auburn highlights, cheekbones as sharp as razors, a lean, muscular body, and a tan that spoke of days, weeks - years perhaps - riding the waves at Waimea Bay or Rocky Point or the Banzai Pipeline._ _

__In other words, trouble._ _

__Kevin had not exercised his gay-dar in a very long time, but realized that it was still as sharp as ever as he noticed the appreciative spark in the young man's eyes._ _

__"Hi." The voice was slightly husky._ _

__"Hello." Kevin answered as he deliberately retrieved his Kindle from his shirt pocket._ _

__"Nice day for flying."_ _

__Kevin was careful to make sure his smile was disinterested, slightly patronizing. "Guess so."_ _

__Green eyes dropped, deliberately examining the body beneath the colorful shirt. "You surf?"_ _

__"Back in the day," Kevin answered, rather pleased to come up with a response that should effectively illuminate the generation gap between them, but . . ._ _

__"What takes you to Seattle?"_ _

__Okay. Time to nip this in the bud. "Going to my daughter's wedding," he replied, straight-faced, therein accomplishing two goals with one sentence; indicating that he was neither gay, nor young enough to be interested in post-pubescent Joe College - no matter how gorgeous._ _

__The young man was not quite experienced enough in the art of gay seduction to be able to hide the quick shadow of disappointment in his eyes, and Kevin felt a moment of shame. He was not proud of what he'd had to do in order to step out of his old life and into a completely new identity, but he knew it had to be this way. Piper's Canyon was a product of California by geography, not by social attitude, and he'd had to accept that. To live in that small, insular community and be accepted, he'd had to do something he'd promised himself he would never do. In an act of self preservation, he'd been forced to step back into the closet he'd abandoned when he was sixteen years old. He was not proud of it, but he knew that he would have to remain there, concealing his true nature, until he had put enough space between the life he'd lived before and the new one he hoped to build that he wouldn't have to endure the fear of being found out and dragged back into yesterdays he could no longer endure._ _

__To achieve anonymity as a gay man required taking up residence in a larger city, and that he dared not risk. Not only had he been well acquainted with a lot of members of the legal profession in such places, but his face had become quite recognizable during his time as Robert's communications director and media liaison._ _

__For the moment, big cities were best avoided. Thus Piper's Canyon, it was - insular, isolated, and mostly uninterested in the world beyond its borders. He didn't dwell much on the reason for his choice, but some little part of his mind understood that it was because the village was symbolic of his childhood - a faint link to the small number of yesterdays that he actually wanted to preserve._ _

__He would have liked to believe that the residents of his new home town would not condemn him for his sexual identity, but, in his heart, he knew better. He'd met a lot of the locals, both male and female, since he'd started working at the Pub, and found most of them affable and friendly and generally content to accept his vague explanations about his past without demanding any details. But he'd also heard the sotto voce comments made among the tavern's regulars and noticed how they watched and measured when any stranger came wandering in who did not quite live up to their standards of traditional masculine deportment. Maybe the hair was a little too long, and curled a little too perfectly around the ear. Or maybe the jeans were worn just that much too tight, cupping a pert bubble butt a little too perfectly. Or maybe it was an inflection of the voice or a look in the eye or the condition of manicured mails or the barest hint of a swish in mannerisms or a sway in the walk. Kevin wasn't always sure what it was that set them off, but he could always tell when it happened. They were never anything but polite, of course, and there was nothing overtly rude or challenging in their behavior. But it was there in their expressions, in the wariness in their eyes, and the way their fists clenched and unclenched as they watched in silence until the newcomer, sensing a chill in the air that he couldn't quite define, decided that he would best be moving along._ _

__Of course, he was careful to conceal his smiles on the rare occasion when someone walked in, and no one so much as spared a second look, while his own intuitive ability to spot a fellow gay man was strobing a red alert._ _

__The locals practiced a subtle form of homophobia, quiet, even harmless to a degree, but ultimately every bit as real as the kind that got young gay kids bashed to death in the mean streets of big cities or strung up on farms in Wyoming. And it was enough to convince Kevin that he'd made the right choice; to reveal who and what he was would be to take his life in his hands. The villagers' behavior was never overt or loud or challenging, but it was homophobic, nonetheless, and to hell with the national public perception of California's gay-friendly ambiance._ _

__The decision to step away from the man he had grown up to be had been almost as hard as walking away from his life in the first place, and, emotionally, it had been almost as crippling, because he quickly realized that he didn't know how to be someone else. He still woke up crying sometimes, although he couldn't be sure which betrayal had driven him to tears at any given moment. He had betrayed his family, betrayed his husband - the love of his life - and betrayed himself, and no dalliance with a willing, sun-gilded surfer was going to make up for any of it._ _

__Nevertheless, he allowed his gaze to linger for a moment, noting the quick flash of dimples as the young man favored him with one more smile - resigned now but still interested, despite himself. A college kid, thought Kevin, and young enough - almost - to be his son, but still . . . tempting. Moving very deliberately and unable to completely squelch a tiny, rueful smile, he put his Kindle away and settled back against his headrest, feigning sleep, and spent the next half hour concentrating on not imagining how that lithe, golden body would look lying bare and comely against rumpled, white sheets, or, even worse, remembering another lithe body - the absolutely perfect body - lying in a pool of sunlight on a lazy Sunday morning, sensual and spent and glowing with sexual satisfaction._ _

__Damn! Better to think about the actual living temptation beside him than the memory that always threatened to destroy him if he let it take hold._ _

__On the other hand . . ._ _

__He allowed himself a tiny sigh. He'd thought he'd gotten better at this; he'd thought a time would come when he wouldn't even notice when some luscious young stud favored him with a come-hither look. Obviously, he'd been dead wrong._ _

__So, to drag his mind away from where he could not allow it to go, he turned his thoughts to the hours yet to come - to the chore he had set for himself, and how he had to go about it, in order to spare anyone any more pain. Excepting him, of course, because he could not deceive himself; this was going to hurt._ _

__He'd taken as much care as possible, avoiding unnecessary risks and making sure that the timing was perfect for his purposes. In the Walker family, there were always excuses for almost any transgression - except one. If one were a product of the union of Nora and William Walker, one did not, under any circumstances, dare to fail to be present for the celebration of Nora Walker's birthday. Such behavior had been a cardinal sin while William lived, and had become even more unforgivable since his death. This year would be no exception; it might, in fact, be even more vital than usual. Since the chances of Kevin being present were virtually non-existent, none of them would risk failing to show up - in order to try to fill the void, more or less._ _

__So he could safely assume that they would all be there. Even Tommy. And he'd made doubly sure of that by checking with the airlines to confirm the reservations made for Thomas Walker, Seattle to LAX. Luckily all of Tommy's vital statistics were still listed in a file in his laptop, including things like driver's license number and credit card data, so it was no problem to identify himself as the man who had so carelessly mislaid his flight information. He thought it slightly ironic that Tommy would be departing from the Seattle airport a scant four hours before he himself would be arriving._ _

__From that point, he had only one more major cast member to confront, and he had to confess that he had no idea how that individual would react._ _

__He hadn't wanted to take this risk, had wanted to spare anyone else the discomfort of being a part of his deception, but could not, in good conscience, do anything other than what he was doing. He had tried to ignore the thoughts that kept sneaking into the back doors of his mind - but couldn't. As time went on, he had been plagued more and more frequently with memories of Elizabeth as she'd looked in the hospital, fighting for her life when her young liver had failed; memories that tormented him with the knowledge that it had been his body that provided the means for her cure, when none other would do. What if . . . what if it happened again? The same kind of thing, or something similar. What if she needed something else, something only he could provide, and no one knew how to reach him?_ _

__He couldn't live with that, so he had no choice. He had to trust Julia, and pray that he could convince her not to betray his confidence. In truth, he didn't have much hope of success; why, after all, should she trust him or help him? She'd undoubtedly heard the whole ugly story from Tommy, so why would she . . ._ _

__He drew a deep breath, realizing that he had no choice but to try. He had accepted the bottom line truth a long time ago. Genetics and biology notwithstanding, Tommy was Elizabeth's legal father, but that didn't seem to matter to the small, private part of Kevin's heart that claimed her as his own and knew that he would never be able to turn his back on her. Thus, this crazy mission had to succeed; he had to find a way to convince Julia to allow him to remain a part of the life of the daughter they shared, whether or not that fundamental truth was ever acknowledged._ _

__"You okay, Man?" said a soft, hesitant voice murmuring directly into his ear._ _

__Kevin sat up abruptly, trying to wipe his eyes surreptitiously. "I'm fine," he replied. "Just fine."_ _

__The young man lifted one hand and gently, tentatively wiped away a tear that clung stubbornly to Kevin's eyelashes. "Sure you are."_ _

__Kevin turned slightly and looked deep into eyes like dark emeralds and wanted - for a single second - to accept the offer he read there, to lean forward and devour those perfect, bee-stung lips and lose himself in the lines and angles and curves of that perfect body._ _

__For one single second._ _

__Luckily - or unluckily, he would never be sure which - the sound system chose that moment to broadcast a brief burst of static before the pilot's voice announced that they were landing._ _

__Joe College's smile was bittersweet as he laid a comforting hand against Kevin's chest - there and gone, almost too quickly to notice. "I hear that everybody cries at weddings," he said softly. "You're just getting started a little early." He paused for a second, eyes once more examining Kevin's face. "I'll bet she's beautiful."_ _

__Kevin looked away, refusing to meet that speculative gaze, and thought instead about Elizabeth._ _

__"Yeah, she is."_ _

__"Like her daddy, then."_ _

__The smile was irrepressible as he recalled some of Tommy's remarks about his daughter's curls._ _

__"Not so much. More like her mom."_ _

__The young man did not actually say, "That's a shame," but it was there to read in his face._ _

__Kevin thought he'd never in his life been so relieved to hear the sound of scorching rubber, as the tires slammed into the runway. There was no lingering when the plane rolled to a stop, and the seatbelt light flickered off. His seatmate got to his feet quickly, collected his bag, and turned to go as Kevin moved forward to retrieve his own duffle and make his exit. But as they were standing there, waiting for the aisle to clear in front of them, Joe College turned back once more and gave Kevin that sweet, slightly lopsided smile and pressed his hand - just once and very lightly - against Kevin's chest, before reaching up to straighten the collar of the Hilfiger shirt. "See you around," he said very softly._ _

__Then he was gone, leaving Kevin relieved, resigned, and - just slightly - breathless._ _

__Definitely time to go._ _

__~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~_ _

__The playroom was more of a shambles than usual, and Julia grumbled to herself a bit as she tried to sort out toys and books and games. She had never been more grateful for the large, plentiful storage bins that lined one entire wall of the brightly decorated room. She smiled as she looked up and spotted the letters arranged just below the bright, Disney-patterned wallpaper border that topped off walls of pastel stripes, remembering when a certain individual had affixed them, allowing Elizabeth to direct the spacing and placement. She had never seen her daughter happier - not even when her "father" was in residence to play with her._ _

__"Elizabeth's Pumpkin," it read. It was exactly what the little girl had wanted, when she'd been going through her Cinderella phase. It was perfectly Elizabeth, much like the rest of the house was perfectly Julia, all thanks to someone who had insisted on remaining nameless._ _

__It wouldn't do at all for Tommy to discover that it had been his brother - the brother who had provided the seed of life that had become Elizabeth, the brother who was both much-loved and much-resented for that same fact - who had provided the down payment and co-signed the mortgage that allowed Julia to purchase her small but lovely home._ _

__She wondered sometimes if Tommy suspected. She thought he must, at least once in a while, although he obviously preferred to believe that it was her parents who had coughed up the funds. And in that, he was partially right. Though not particularly wealthy, her mom and dad had given her a nest egg to get her started in her new life, a tidy sum to tide her over until the sale of the house she'd owned with Tommy had been completed, and the proceeds had been funneled into her account. Tommy had been off in Mexico then, "finding himself" as Nora had always termed it, and had relinquished his claims on their community property, which had been almost non-existent anyway, after repayment of the funds Tommy had purloined from Ojai Foods and reimbursing Kevin for the money he'd contributed to cover past due mortgage payments, even though he'd been reluctant to accept it. She had insisted, and he'd given in - for a while._ _

__At the same time, she'd tried to repay her parents, but they'd refused to accept, insisting that she use the proceeds from the sale to start rebuilding her life. And she had tried, but found that living on her teacher's salary and supporting Elizabeth had left her with virtually nothing to put away toward the purchase of a suitable home._ _

__It was at that point that Mr. "Nameless" had stepped in. He'd never admitted how he knew what she needed; never even talked about it much. He'd just walked into her rented apartment one sunny morning, handed her an advertisement from a local realtor with a picture of a small, charming, suburban house that he thought perfect for her and her daughter, and presented her with a check to cover the down payment, and a form from a local bank, already filled out and bearing his signature as co-signer, all with the understanding that she was free to opt for a different house if she found one she liked better. All she had to do was accept it._ _

__Pride had almost made her refuse; she hadn't wanted to feel indebted to any Walker. But then she'd looked up and met his eyes and seen the bald truth there. No matter what the legal documents or the hospital records might say, this man was, at heart, Elizabeth's father._ _

__She had accepted his offer and correctly identified the look in his eyes as gratitude and relief. So now here she was, and here Elizabeth was, but . . . where was Kevin?_ _

__She'd been devastated by Tommy's phone call, although she'd managed not to show it. Tommy did not know - and did not need to know - about the relationship between her and his brother. She and Kevin had both realized that Tommy would never understand it or condone it._ _

__But now - had she been wrong about everything? Had they never had any kind of relationship at all?_ _

__She looked out the window to where Elizabeth was playing in her sandbox, the sun striking sparks of gold in her hair, painting her in dazzling light against the backdrop of pink and rose blossoms covering the flourishing clematis vine that was Julia's current pride and joy. The little girl - four years old now, and growing more precocious by the day - was building roads for her fleet of toy trucks with her best friend, Greg. Was it significant that beautiful, blond Elizabeth had turned out to be a tomboy of the first order, preferring boys' rough and tumble over more feminine pursuits? Would Kevin be disappointed that she no longer showed much interest in ballet and princess dresses and porcelain dolls? Would he . . . would he ever even be around to notice?_ _

__She sighed and moved toward the kitchen to prepare dinner, a simple task involving heating up the red beans and rice and ham she had prepared over the week-end, and preparing a fresh salad to go with it. Elizabeth would be happy as a clam; red beans and rice were her favorite._ _

__The house phone rang as she stepped into the sunny kitchen, and she frowned. She had a house phone because . . . well, because there might be an occasion when she would need it. If her cell battery failed maybe, or . . . whatever. But it almost never rang, and she almost didn't answer, figuring it would be some telemarketer for whom she had no time._ _

__But old habits were hard to break, and she lifted the receiver, prepared to give a two-word response to any sales pitch: "Not interested"._ _

__After her clipped "Hello", there was a beat of silence, broken only by a quick indrawn breath, and she almost hung up, even less willing to deal with an obscene caller than a telemarketer._ _

__But she didn't. Something made her wait. Something . . ._ _

__"Hi, Julia. It's me."_ _

__"Kevin?" she replied softly. "Oh, my God. Kevin, is that really you?"_ _

__"In the flesh. I know I should have called ahead, but . . ."_ _

__"Ahead? What do you mean ahead?" Then she smiled. "Where are you?"_ _

__"Across the street," he replied after a brief hesitation. "I - I want to see you, to talk to you. But I don't want to cause you any trouble, so if you think this is a bad idea, I'll . . ."_ _

__"Kevin Walker, if you are not standing at my door by the time I get there to open it, you're in deep trouble. Comprende?"_ _

__He laughed, and she thought her heart would break as she recognized the note of relief in his voice. He had not been sure he'd be welcome._ _

__It was absolutely past time to set him straight._ _

__He was there when she opened the door, Kevin - and not Kevin. The same - and different. Instantly recognizable, handsome and more than that - possessed of a deeply beautiful, generous, loving spirit. And yet, though the love was still there in his eyes, the hope that had been the focus of his existence for so long was no longer evident. Instead, there was loneliness and pain and despair. And she realized abruptly that it didn't really matter why he had done what he'd done, why he'd felt compelled to walk out on his old life. Whatever his reasons, it seemed that he hadn't managed to walk out on her, and - more importantly - on her daughter. She threw herself into his arms, and, for a while, neither was quite sure which of them was shedding the copious tears that fell between them, although they did finally realize that the weeping was mutual._ _

__"I know I shouldn't be here," he murmured. "I know it'll put you in the middle of something you want no part of. But . . . but I couldn't just stay away, could I? Just in case . . ."_ _

__"Just in case she needs you," she said with a smile. Then she pulled him inside and closed the door behind him. "She'll always need you, and I don't give a damn what I have to do to make sure that she'll always be able to find you when she does."_ _

__"Even," he said slowly, "if it means that you'll have to hide it - from Tommy, from everybody?"_ _

__"Even if," she answered without a moment of hesitation. "I know we're not supposed to talk about it or acknowledge it - according to the Walker family user's manual - but you know what? I no longer worry about those stupid rules, and you mean more to Elizabeth than you realize. She may never know that she's your biological daughter - although I wouldn't be too sure of that - but she's always known, somehow, that you're more than just her uncle. And if I have to teach her to keep your secret too, well, that's just how it will be."_ _

__He ducked his head, trying to hide how touched he was by her words, but he needn't have bothered. She already knew._ _

__"Can I . . . can I see her? Just for a minute?"_ _

__"Nope," she replied. "If you think you're going to come waltzing in her and then trip out again after 'a minute', think again, Little brother. You're staying for dinner and . . . when do you have to leave?"_ _

__"Flight out at 10:00 AM," he answered, sounding uncertain - but wistful._ _

__"And I just happen to have a lovely spare room," she informed him._ _

__"No," he replied quickly. "I don't want to impose . . ."_ _

__"I think it's up to me to decide if you're imposing, and you're not." She reached up and touched his face. "I know you have to be careful, and I know there are lots of things you won't tell me. But, for tonight, you stay here and you play with your daughter - our daughter, and you tell me whatever you want me to know. And in the morning, I'll go to work, and you'll leave to go back to the new life you're making for yourself, promising only one thing. That you'll call me sometimes - when you need to - and that you'll leave a number where I can reach you. I swear that no one else will ever know."_ _

__He studied her face. "How can you do this? How can you just accept what I've done, and still believe in me? I don't deserve it, and . . ."_ _

__"Shush," she said sharply, laying her hand across his mouth. "I don't want to hear another word. More than most, I know all about what it's like to live in Walker World, and I don't need to hear the details. You're a good, decent man who's been extraordinarily good to me and to the daughter we share. You're the reason that I have her, and that's all I need to know. My only regret is that you deserve so much more than this, Kevin. You deserve a wonderful future with Scotty, and . . ."_ _

__But he was shaking his head. "Maybe I did - once. But no more. But, if you really mean it, I'd love to stay for a while and visit with Elizabeth . . . and you. It's good to see a familiar face."_ _

__She smiled and nodded. Then she led him through the house and pulled him out into the back yard where Elizabeth spotted him and responded to his presence with a delighted squeal. Moments later, he was on his butt in the sandbox, completely enchanted with his "niece" and helping Greg construct a bridge across a sand canyon, not caring in the least that he was going to have sand in places that sand was never meant to be. A sprightly spring wind had risen and swirled through the bountiful foliage of Julia's lovely garden, and the warm air picked up a few stray clematis petals, lifting them to float for a moment before dropping them on the young man and the children laughing together. One caught in dark curls, and another in bright gold. Kevin didn't seem to notice, but Julia did, looking down on the playmates and realizing that they had no idea how beautiful they were together._ _

__Obviously, nothing mattered to Kevin but the happy little girl who had curled herself into his lap and was looking up into eyes virtually identical to her own._ _

__Julia was pretty sure that a bomb could have exploded next door, and neither Kevin nor Elizabeth would have noticed. For a moment, the entire world held only the two of them, lost in their love for each other and the wonder of shared laughter._ _

__She left them there, all three of them enjoying their game, and slipped back into the house, where she had to spend a few minutes wiping away her tears and promising herself that she would find a way to preserve the precious bond that existed between these two beautiful people - no matter what._ _

__~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~_ _

__The cake was a small masterpiece - one of the most perfect he'd ever done. Nora's favorite, of course: carrot cake with pineapple/cream cheese icing. Perfect._ _

__Perfect - and useless, because it didn't matter._ _

__Scotty leaned against the tiled surface of the cabinets in Nora's kitchen and tried to pretend that he cared one way or another._ _

__Behind him, on the other side of the kitchen, Saul was busy basting a beautiful crown roast, muttering to himself because he thought the new potatoes had browned too quickly, and watching the clock to make sure the butternut squash soufflé would not cook too long. This meal - like every other Nora Walker birthday meal - had to be perfect, even if he was wondering if anybody was actually going to taste any part of the feast. He was trying very hard not to resent the fact that Scotty had offered no assistance with the meal preparation. His contribution had been confined to the cake, which was lovely and perfect, but . . . Saul sighed, knowing he had no right to expect more from his nephew's husband, who was now a broken man. None of the family had actually admitted that yet, but that didn't make it any less true._ _

__Scotty was staring out the window again, lost in . . . whatever it was he was seeing out there, and Saul had to suppress an urge to leap across the room and shake his partner until his teeth rattled. Because this would serve no purpose. Nothing that any of them could do here, tonight, at this special occasion, could resolve the one problem that none of them knew how to remedy._ _

__Kevin was not going to be here, and neither the finest meal, the most spectacular wines, nor the most perfect cake in the world was going to fix that. Saul quickly poured himself a glass of Walker Landing pinot noir, and tried to think of something else; anything else but the dreaded unwanted realization that . . . maybe they'd all been wrong, and Scotty had been right. Maybe Kevin really wasn't coming home._ _

__And maybe they all knew it finally. Or most of them anyway. Even among the youngsters, Kevin's name went mostly unspoken these days. Only Evan, still too young to know better, sometimes looked around whatever room the family might be gathered in, and asked his question before anyone could think to silence him._ _

__"Where's Unca Kevin?"_ _

__The immediate result was always the same - a brief, thick silence, followed by a raucous eruption of conversation that managed to sound only slightly desperate, while little Evan just looked confused. It had been harder on the young ones than anyone might have expected. Especially Paige, perhaps, who had come face to face with her own epiphany when she thought about her role in Kevin's departure. Sarah was still worried about her, and still a bit angry with Scotty for not leaving her out of the family confrontation that had forced them all to rethink their behavior, but Paige was not angry; was, in fact, grateful that Scotty had believed her to be mature enough to accept responsibility for her actions. That was what she'd always loved about Kevin too. He had always believed that she deserved truth, even if it was hard to swallow._ _

__Scotty heard a burst of young laughter from the area around the pool and gave up his attempt to follow the flight of a hawk in the distance, lowering his gaze just in time to watch Paige tumbling backwards into the pool, scowling so fiercely that he thought he should be grateful that he was not Cooper - especially since Paige's new boyfriend, Jacob, was standing nearby, watching the whole thing and wearing one of those silly teen-aged-boy smiles that were always just slightly over the top, no matter what the situation._ _

__Nearby Sarah was sprawled bonelessly across a deeply-padded deck chair, most of her hair and face concealed beneath a big-brimmed sun hat as she attacked her second martini since her arrival twenty minutes earlier, and gazed appreciatively at her fiancé in his perfectly fitted swim trunks._ _

__Scotty wondered if he should go out there and make sure Paige got rescued without having her pride devastated any further. He considered it - for about a minute. Then he calmly continued touching up icing that was already perfect, figuring that Luc would manage to calm troubled waters. That was Luc's job, wasn't it? It certainly wasn't Scotty's responsibility. He had very few of those left in his life, since he hadn't even managed to fulfill the most important one, the one that would have saved the man who was the love of his life. Kevin had needed rescuing from a floodtide of self-destructive despair, and Scotty had failed him._ _

__At the other end of the pool, Justin was sitting alone, his nose buried in a paperback, but Scotty had noticed that the young man had not turned a single page in the entire time he had been under observation. So he wasn't really lost in a story; he was lost in thought. Scotty studied his face for a moment, and wondered if anyone else in the family had figured out how badly Justin was hurting. He was constantly amazed that the young veteran managed to hide himself so well behind his stoic public persona, even succeeding - God knew how - at staying beneath Nora's all-powerful radar._ _

__How, Scotty wondered as he poured himself a glass of Chardonnay, had he ever believed that this family was so intuitive, so sensitive and certain in their knowledge of each other? In truth, he'd finally realized that most of them lived in a fantasy of their own making and ultimately - didn't know shit. He had begun to think of them as The Family Oblivious, capitalization intended._ _

__Most oblivious of all was big sister and Well Known Pundit (in her own mind, Kitty's title would always be a proper noun) Kitty Walker McAllister, who had only recently decided to drop the surname and take back her own maiden name. It was, after all, the one with which she'd staked her original claim to fame. Kitty, whose entire existence was wrapped around her own perceptions, her own desires, her own political agenda, and her own unique way of looking at life, was probably the most delusional of all the Walkers. For example, she was still insisting that Kevin was going to "get his head out of his ass and come crawling home begging forgiveness"._ _

__Even Tommy - the brother with the sensitivity of a boulder - seemed to know better than that._ _

__Most of the family, even if they hadn't completely accepted Scotty's conclusions, had figured out that what Kevin had done was not a passing fancy, not a whim of the moment, and - above all - not some kind of mindless, selfish, Kevin-being-Kevin temper tantrum. Kitty still refused to consider any other option, although, in truth, she wasn't really paying much attention, still caught up in her infatuation with Seth, the perpetual student, Seth, the Oscar-Wilde wanna-be, Seth, the . . . well, in reality Kitty was free to choose any sobriquet she wished to use since Seth was, ultimately, a work in progress, achingly young, very sweet and likeable, but still incomplete._ _

__Scotty picked up his glass and his bottle and fetched a soda from the fridge before going out to take a seat beside Justin. The youngest Walker sibling accepted the cold beverage with a quick smile that was warm enough but failed to reach his eyes._ _

__"You okay?" Scotty asked, shading his face with his hand against the brilliance of the setting sun, in order to get a clear look at his brother-in-law's face._ _

__"What do you think?" Justin managed a small chuckle. "I think the two of us should find a place to drown our sorrows, so we don't spoil the party for everybody else."_ _

__Scotty settled back in the plush deck chair and closed his eyes. "Screw 'em," he said, taking a sip of his wine._ _

__Justin did not argue. They sat in silence for a while, ignoring the bickering of the children, Luc and Sarah's innuendo-laden exchanges, Tommy and Kitty's ever more heated argument about the latest Republican to be caught - literally - with his pants down, and Seth's mostly futile attempts to entertain Evan, who was stubbornly determined to grab his mother's attention so she could watch his first brave leap into the pool. He wasn't having much luck, and Scotty spent a moment considering what he would have given - and what Kevin would have given - to have the chance to watch their child do something - anything - for the first time._ _

__"Shit!" he muttered under his breath._ _

__Justin favored him with a tiny smile. "Not exactly up for the big occasion, huh?"_ _

__Scotty took another sip of wine. "About as much as you, I'm thinking."_ _

__The two of them continued to sit in comfortable silence while everyone else leapt up and donned enthusiastic smiles when Nora and Brody made their entrance. Scotty and Justin ignored angry glares from Sarah and Kitty and raised their glasses in a silent tribute, but made no move to join the party. Luc and Tommy looked slightly embarrassed, not sure whether or not to gush with the girls or brood with the boys._ _

__In the end, they did neither, nudged aside and ignored as the grandchildren were prevailed upon to perform the special presentation of a bouquet of yellow roses which was the ritual beginning for every celebration of Nora's birthday._ _

__Nora smiled, of course, accepting hugs from her children and her grandchildren, while Brody just looked slightly bored and was quick to fetch a cold beer from the house. For a moment, he looked like he might wander over to join Scotty and Justin in their contemplation of the deep end of the pool, but then he thought better of it._ _

__Smart man, thought Scotty._ _

__They had a few more minutes of peace and quiet while the main body of celebrants moved inside to finish last minute details and set out the Parma Prosciutto and smoked sausage Bruschetta._ _

__Justin sat up and gazed toward the house before turning to Scotty with a rueful smile. "We're on borrowed time here, you know. She won't stand for this for long. But hey, I forgot to tell you something. Day before yesterday, you'll never guess who I ran into in the parking lot down at Romero Medical Center."_ _

__"Not much in the mood for guessing, Bro."_ _

__Justin nodded, feeling slightly foolish. "Yeah, okay. Poor choice of words. But anyway, we were down there to transfer a patient to Huntington Memorial, and I walk around the back of the bus and almost ran over Michelle."_ _

__"Michelle?" echoed Scotty. "Our Michelle? Michelle McGregor?"_ _

__"The one and only."_ _

__Scotty closed his eyes and drew a deep breath, trying to sort through memories as sharp as pieces of broken glass, trying to bring up the good ones - and discard the bad. "How was she?"_ _

__"She looked good," Justin answered, but he didn't sound very sure of it._ _

__"But?"_ _

__"Nothing really. She just seemed a little . . . nervous, I guess. Don't know why she'd be nervous to see me. I barely knew her. But she was sure in a hurry to get away."_ _

__"So she didn't tell you what she was doing here, or where she's living now. Nothing?"_ _

__Justin shook his head. "Just that she had to go because she was late to pick up her mother, and . . . well, she did say to tell you hello. Just you though." His smile was slightly lopsided. "Not Kevin. I don't think she ever really felt that close to him. Or vice versa, I guess."_ _

__Scotty sighed. "You're right. I guess I was the only thing they had in common. But Michelle was my friend even before I met Kevin, and I'd still like to talk to her, to be able to tell her how much we appreciated what she tried to do for us. Both of us."_ _

__Justin nodded. "I'm sorry. I had to help get the stretcher out of the back of the unit, and when I turned back around, she was gone."_ _

__The silence fell on them again, but Justin could tell that Scotty was musing over the behavior of the woman who had contracted to be the surrogate for Scotty and Kevin, to bear their child. She had disappeared from their lives after the pregnancy had ended in miscarriage, had gone off to New York to make a name for herself, according to gossip. But they had never really had a chance to talk about what had happened, and even though the baby in question had not been Michelle's biological child, Scotty was sure she must have been affected by its loss. He'd like to have the chance to tell her that he understood, that he shared her pain and wished her only the best._ _

__Apparently, she had no desire to listen to whatever he might say, and he had no choice but to respect her wishes._ _

__He wondered vaguely how many people he would wind up losing before his life was over._ _

__Then, abruptly, there was no more time for musing, as a small, determined figure walked out of the house and moved toward them. The two watched her coming and knew that the jig was officially up. Nora Walker was obviously on a mission._ _

__"Why are you two skulking around out here?" she demanded, her smile just slightly off kilter. "The party's inside, and Scotty, you've outdone yourself. That cake is a masterpiece, and I can't tell you how much I appreciate your efforts. Nobody bakes a better cake than you."_ _

__Both Justin and Scotty had begun to get to their feet, knowing that one shrugged off the determined efforts of Nora Walker at one's own risk. But it was then that Scotty was gripped by a memory so powerful and sharp that he almost went to his knees._ _

_"If you bake it, he will come."_

__It was as if it had happened yesterday - another dreadful occasion when Kevin had been forced to find his way through the darkness of a nightmare not of his own making - alone. He had been devastated to learn the truth about what had happened to his friend, Aaron, on the occasion of his sister's party at Ojai Foods when Kevin was barely sixteen years old; devastated to realize that he had been responsible for a dreadful injury to the young man to whom he'd been attracted, when he was still struggling to accept his homosexuality._ _

_"If you bake it, he will come."_

__And she'd been right - that time. Kevin had been broken, filled with bitter remorse, guilt-stricken, and alone, but he'd still managed to find the courage to come home. Late and still hurting and almost lost, but he'd come nonetheless, back to the bosom of the family that loved him, despite everything._ _

__But now - he wouldn't come home now, for he no longer believed that he had the right. That . . . Scotty felt a harsh twist in his gut . . . that was what he - Scotty - had taken from the man he loved more than life itself. Kevin had forfeited everything, believing that what he'd done could never be forgiven, that he was unworthy of forgiveness, even among those in his own family._ _

__"Scotty," said Nora, moving close enough to wrap her arm around his waist, "please don't do this to yourself. This is not your fault. You didn't do this. You . . ."_ _

__He stood very straight abruptly, moving out of the curve of her arm, and there was actual anger flaring in his eyes. "Yes, I did. No matter how many times you try to excuse me, and blame him . . . I did this. Me. No one else, and having all of you pretend otherwise doesn't make it any better."_ _

__He paused to blink away the tears that were rising in his eyes. "Do you know what he said to me - that night at the café, after he took a swing at the wrong waiter? He said, 'I'm not angry; I'm in pain. And you're the one who put me there.' Do you know how it feels when I remember that, when I remember his face, and the agony in his eyes as he spoke each word?"_ _

__He stopped then, looking down, looking into nothing. "Of course, you don't. You weren't there, and none of you ever knew what he was going through, mostly because you didn't want to know. It was easier that way. But I knew. He looked me straight in the eye and said, 'You did this.' And he was right. He was broken by what I did, but you were all too busy trying to pretend that everything would be OK, that Kevin was just over-reacting, as usual. Jesus Christ! Did any of you ever know him at all?"_ _

__Nora's eyes were huge as she looked up at him; huge and confused and filled with misgivings and uncertainty. But to his surprise, when he turned to look at Justin, he realized that his youngest brother-in-law understood what he was saying, and why he was saying it._ _

__Damn! He would really love to be able to buy Justin a beer sometime, just to express his gratitude. It meant so much to have someone - just one someone - understand what he was feeling._ _

__They stood together there for a moment - a frozen tableau - until Scotty turned away to move toward the edge of the pool. "Best get inside," he said softly. "Can't very well start the party without the guest of honor."_ _

__"Scotty?" she said softly, moving closer and lifting a hand to touch his face._ _

__"It's all right," he said quickly, deliberately backing away from her. "I'll be in shortly."_ _

__"You sure, Bro?" That was Justin, willing to give him whatever space he needed, but also willing to offer a helping hand, if needed._ _

__"I'm sure. You go on."_ _

__He stood there alone as the sun sank lower in the sky and the shadows grew longer and deeper. He thought it was a pretty good metaphor for his life._ _

__Finally, when he glanced toward the dining room and noted that the family was seated at their appointed places, he started toward the kitchen door. It was at that exact moment that his phone rang._ _

__Still distracted and lost in the moment, he answered without noting the name on the display screen._ _

__"Hello."_ _

__A pause followed by a quick breath._ _

__"Hello." This time, he spoke with a bit of impatience, since he wasn't in the mood for foolishness._ _

__Another pause, and then. "Hi, Scotty. I don't know if you want to speak to me, but . . ." All spoken in a rush._ _

__"Michelle," he replied very softly. "Oh, God, Michelle, of course I want to speak to you. Where are you? How are you? Do you have any idea how much I've missed you?"_ _

__He could almost hear the smile in her voice. "Oh, Scotty, I can't even begin to tell you how many times I thought about you. You were my best friend, for as long as I can remember. It was so hard . . ."_ _

__"Then why did you go?" he asked gently. "It was like you just dropped off the face of the earth. And nobody had a clue how to find you. I even called Chad. That'll tell you how desperate I was, since you know, better than almost anybody, how much I don't like talking to my husband's exes."_ _

__The pain hit him then, born again and stronger because he'd let himself forget - for one tiny moment - that he himself was now one of those 'exes'._ _

__"Oh, Scotty," she sighed. "I heard what happened. Is he . . . has he . . ."_ _

__"No," he said, taking a deep breath. "He hasn't come back. I don't think he will."_ _

__"I'm so sorry."_ _

__He paused, waiting to see if she might say more, and was gratified when she didn't. "I can't tell you how much it means to me that you didn't start spouting off that he doesn't deserve me and I should count myself lucky that he's gone."_ _

__"And I can't believe that anybody would actually say something so awful to you. Look, Scotty, Kevin and I were never going to become bosom buddies. We're too different. But not so different that I couldn't see one thing clearly. He loved you, more, I think, than anyone else ever could. So you just don't listen to all those pompous asses who don't know shit from shine. OK?"_ _

__He laughed. It was a very small laugh, but comfortable and warm. It felt right._ _

__"Can we get together?" he asked. "You can't imagine how much I want to see you.'_ _

__She hesitated, and he thought she covered the phone for a moment as there was a murmur of something he couldn't quite make out. "Not tonight," she said finally. "Got family stuff to do. But how about tomorrow? Lunch, maybe?"_ _

__Scotty smiled. "Sounds perfect. You come to my place and let me show off my restaurant. It's the only thing . . . I have left to show you." He was surprised that he almost managed to complete the invitation without having to stop to breathe. He had never actually admitted it to anyone before._ _

__"For now, maybe," she said, her voice gentle and sad. But when she continued, her tone was different, filled with something he could not quite identify. "For now, but not forever."_ _

__~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~_ _

__tbc_ _


	7. Burned Bridges

Chapter 7: Burned Bridges

_In five hundred twenty-five thousand,_   
_six hundred minutes,_   
_How do you measure a year in the life . . ._   
_In truths that she learned,_   
_Or in times that he cried._   
_In bridges he burned,_   
_Or the way that she died._

\- _Seasons of Love_ \-- Jonathon Larson

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

A lively breeze had risen in the course of the evening, carrying the faint tang of salt water from the bay, and now assaulted the house in gusts that rattled the windows and sent the small decorative trees in the back yard into a wild dance that shredded leaves and dropped spring blossoms across the velvety surface of the lawn. The chains of the swing set twisted and clanked, and even the boards of the wooden fence seemed to tremble before the onslaught. Still, there were few clouds overhead, and the moonlight was bright - almost sharp - as it poured down on the landscape.

Julia thought it provided a pretty good metaphor for this occasion - unexpected, unplanned, even a bit disturbing, initially - but, in the end, quite lovely, a memory to treasure.

Dinner had been noisy and fun - non-gourmet but tasty enough, Julia thought as she loaded the last of the pots and pans into the dishwasher. She knew that it had probably not been up to the standards of the meals that Kevin was used to; his husband was, after all, an award-winning chef. But Elizabeth had been delighted to have her uncle - her favorite uncle - present, which seemed to make up for any lack of culinary excellence, and she had been gleeful when Kevin had allowed her to spoon-feed him bites of the mocha-frosted cake Julia had brought home from the neighborhood bakery. He had not even protested when she managed to miss his mouth and deposit a curl of frosting on the end of his nose.

The two had almost inhabited a world of their own throughout the meal, allowing Julia to trespass - occasionally - but more than content to enjoy each other's company.

When dinner had ended, Kevin had risen from the table with the intention of helping Julia with the dishes, but she had put a stop to that in a hurry, since she had other duties in mind for him.

His eyes had been suspiciously bright when she'd directed him to leave the dishes alone, and report instead to the bathroom where it would be his job to bathe his "niece" before tucking her in bed and reading her the bedtime story of her choice.

That had been almost an hour ago now, and she'd cringed once or twice at the sound of giggles and rough laughter and water splashing, wondering what kind of disaster she'd find when she inspected the scene of the crime. Still, all had been quiet for a while now, so maybe it wouldn't be as bad as she'd feared.

Nevertheless, she figured she'd better check to be sure, but any thoughts about housekeeping duties simply evaporated from her mind as she opened the door to her daughter's room to survey the tableau laid out before her.

It was almost a nightly ritual for Elizabeth to beg to be allowed to sit in her mother's lap during the bedtime reading, but Julia was wise to her daughter's manipulations, and always refused to allow it, seating herself instead on the edge of the mattress and watching carefully as Elizabeth's eyes inevitably drifted closed before the end of the chosen fairy tale. But Kevin had not been forewarned, so he had agreed to let her sprawl across his lap as he sat in the big, old-fashioned rocking chair and read to her.

The book she had chosen was frayed and faded from too much handling; it had been her favorite ever since she had been old enough to make the choice, and she could recite the words on every page if she chose to do so, but mostly she just liked to listen to it, and to tap her foot along with the cadence of the reading.

_There once was a velveteen rabbit, and in the beginning he was really splendid. He was fat and bunchy, as a rabbit should be._ *

Kevin's voice had only been a soft murmur when Julia had paused in her kitchen and tried to hear, but she knew instinctively that he would have read the story beautifully, with perfect inflection and accents in exactly the right places, punctuated with appropriate sound effects and interrupted occasionally by Elizabeth's delighted laughter. So Kevin had gone on reading, and Elizabeth had cuddled closer and closer and closer still, until . . . probably quite suddenly . . . the two had dozed off, clasped gently in each other's arms.

The lovely child's face was buried in the softness below Kevin's jaw line, held close and cradled against his shoulder, while his head was braced against the back of the rocking chair, with his nose nestled in the silkiness of her hair. The book lay on the floor where it had fallen, forgotten and forsaken when Kevin had wrapped his arms around Elizabeth's slender body to clasp her more closely against his chest.

Julia wasn't completely sure, but she was pretty convinced that she had never seen anything more beautiful in her life.

She could not - she would not - allow her daughter to lose something that was so special to her, but how the hell would she manage it? It wasn't as if Lizzie would not talk about visits from her "Unka Kev"; she would be bursting with it for weeks, unless Julia could find some way to insure her discretion. She almost smiled then, as she gazed down at the two sleepers; discretion was hardly a word one would use concerning a precocious little girl like Lizzie.

And yet . . . Julia knew she had to find a way. She did not like the idea of encouraging her baby girl to keep secrets from her father, but that was better than allowing her to lose contact with a family member who obviously loved her beyond all reason - a love that was certainly reciprocated.

Kevin had earned the right to be a part of Lizzie's life, and it was up to Julia to find a way to make it happen. And maybe, she realized, as a new thought occurred to her, it wouldn't be a big problem after all.

She was tempted to leave them there, to sleep in the comfort of each other's arms, but knew that Kevin would wake up with a stiff neck and an aching back if she didn't intervene. Nevertheless, she spent a few more minutes just enjoying the view, before leaning forward to lift her daughter from his arms to transfer her to her own bed. Kevin stirred, and seemed reluctant to let her go, murmuring in his sleep before rousing to full wakefulness and regarding Julia with a scapegrace little smile.

"Who'd a thunk it?" she whispered.

"What?" he replied softly.

"The king of the cynics all cuddled up with his baby girl."

"Shut up," he answered with a smile.

"She is, you know," she continued, tucking a pastel-striped coverlet around her daughter's slender body.

"Is what?"

Julia straightened and turned to study his face. "Your baby girl," she murmured, reaching out to touch his chin with tender fingers. "No matter what it says on her birth certificate."

Tears sprang to her eyes as she saw the combined doubt and longing register in his expression. He wanted to believe it, but he didn't dare. He'd already lost the most important things in his world, and it would be a very long time - if ever - before he could let himself believe that he had any right to hold on to anyone else, or claim a place in anyone's life.

"Oh, Kevin," she said with a sigh, "what in God's name have they done to you?"

She reached out again, to caress his face, but he leaned away from her, shaking his head. "It wasn't what they did to me, Jules. It was what I did to them - to him."

But Julia was unconvinced. She studied his expression for a moment, and saw something in his features that she was uniquely qualified to notice. Elizabeth, for the most part, looked like her mother - in coloring, in features, in almost every way. Except, of course, for the curls. But there was something in her eyes, something that only appeared occasionally, when she was tired or lonely or distressed in some way, something that was Kevin to the core. It was doubtful that anyone else would ever notice it, except maybe Nora if she happened to be around at an opportune moment, but Julia saw it now, and it made her heart ache just a wee bit more intensely.

"I don't believe that, Kevin," she said firmly, shaking her head when she saw him open his mouth to argue. "No. Don't say it. I've moved around the fringes of Walker-dom for all these years, and, in some ways, I think I know you better than I know anyone else in the family, possibly even including Tommy. I've seen you fight for the things you believe in; I've seen you refuse to back down, even when the rest of the family tried to force you to do things their way; I've seen you sacrifice things that meant a lot to you in order to do what you believed was right. But I have never, never once, seen you take advantage of the people who love you, and I will not believe that you're capable of that kind of selfishness."

His smile was bittersweet. "I wish I could agree with you. I even wish _they_ could agree with you. But I can't, and they won't. I spent too many years taking, Jules, and now . . . now it's time to suffer the consequences. Scotty . . ." He fell silent, trying to swallow around the lump in his throat. Then he took a deep breath, and looked down once more to take in the sight of the beautiful child he had fathered. "Scotty deserves a better man than I'll ever be; he deserves someone who'll give him love and loyalty and put him ahead of everything. That . . . that's not me. I think . . . I think I used to know that, but I let myself forget. I let myself believe that I could be better, that I could deserve him. But . . . I couldn't, so . . ."

"Please stop," she said urgently, her eyes brimming with tears. "Please, Kevin. You don't deserve this. You don't . . ."

"Jules," he interrupted softly, "just . . . let it go. Please. Look, I want to stay in contact with you. I want to be able to be there for her, if Elizabeth ever . . ." He found that he couldn't get the words out, couldn't even contemplate what kind of trauma might develop so that this precious child might need him again. He leaned forward and smoothed a stray curl from her forehead. "But I can't talk about this. I can't, so please . . . just let me stay in touch, so that if she ever does need me, I'll be available. But that's all, Jules. I won't come here again; I won't put you through that - or her. I'll just be a . . . silent partner. An emergency resource. And you have to promise me that you won't tell the others. For their sake. They need to get on with their lives, and they won't - not as long as they keep searching for me out of some misguided sense of duty. So . . . please, Jules. Promise me."

She did not respond quickly, taking the time to study his expression and read the despair in his eyes. He was wrong; she knew he was wrong, for she knew that Scotty would never, never really recover from losing Kevin. But she also knew, because she could see it clearly in his expression, that he was convinced he was doing the right thing - that Scotty would be better off without him. But what, she wondered, was she to do? How could she give him what he was asking, knowing that it would - ultimately - destroy him?

She took a deep breath. "I'll abide by your terms," she said softly, "on one condition. You will not become a shadow in our daughter's life. She loves you, Kevin, and she needs you, whether you know it or not."

"No," he replied, shaking his head. "It's too risky. I won't put her in a position of having to lie to her father. Hell, I won't put you in that position either. It's not fair, to either of . . ."

"I don't think that will be an issue, Kevin," she interrupted, and then paused, once more searching for the right words. "Tommy is . . . he's not around much any more. And I'm getting the idea that he'll be around even less in the future."

"What are you talking about?" he demanded. "I can't believe that. I mean, she's the only reason he came to Seattle. Isn't she?"

She could not quite suppress a small sigh. "She was," she admitted, "but . . ."

"But what?" His voice was suddenly sharp, sharp enough to threaten mayhem. "What's changed?"

"Nothing," she admitted. "Tommy doesn't change; you know that as well as anybody. So why don't you think about it for a moment, and then give it your best guess."

He stared at her, and it was only a matter of seconds before certainty flared in his eyes as brightly as moonrise. "A woman," he said - not really guessing.

"See? I knew you could do it. Her name is Rose, and she's . . ." She paused, looking for the right words, but not finding them. "She's very unique."

"Yeah, but . . . surely, he wouldn't put a woman - any woman - ahead of his daughter."

"Maybe you're right," she said softly, "but . . ."

"But what?"

"But she's not, is she? And I don't think he's ever quite forgiven you for that. From the very beginning - even when we were waiting to find out whether William would live or die - I think there was some level of resentment of you that he couldn't quite overcome, some part of him that was looking for a reason to blame you for everything that didn't work out as planned. And even more important, I'm not sure he's ever managed to forgive her for it either."

Kevin felt his breath catch in his throat, and could barely summon enough to speak. "Don't say that. Please. Don't . . . don't let that be true. He couldn't, could he?"

She didn't answer, choosing instead to drop a soft kiss on her daughter's forehead before moving toward the door, pulling Kevin with her but allowing him to pause for one last look at the child sleeping so peacefully in her bed.

It couldn't be true. Tommy couldn't resent this beautiful, perfect child, simply because the genes she carried were not - quite - the same as his own. Could he?

"Look, Kev," she said gently, "I make no claims for being blameless in the troubles that erupted between Tommy and me. I blamed him . . . I had trouble dealing with the loss of William, and I blamed him - when I shouldn't have. But our troubles didn't really start there. We just . . . we never found the right path to walk together, but . . . this is going to sound terrible, but it's the truth nevertheless. I don't think Tommy ever managed to get over the fact that he was sterile - that he couldn't father his own child - and, well, let's be honest here. Who was he going to blame? Who was the most logical target? You and your daughter."

Kevin had believed - not so long ago - that nothing could ever hurt as much as the knowledge that he had damaged the people he loved the most.

It was devastating to consider the possibility that he might have been wrong.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

It wasn't often that he felt cold when he was wrapped up in the silkiness of the 1200-thread count sheets that Scotty insisted on buying. At first, he had objected over the expense. It was not that he did not enjoy small luxuries; he was a Walker, for God's sake, and his mother had raised all her children to enjoy the finer things in life. At the same time, she had not been given to extravagance, realizing early on that the luxury of Egyptian cotton would have been wasted on young bodies that often sprawled atop colorful comforters to sleep, comfortable in the central heat of the big house. Even Kitty, maven of sophistication that she was at an extremely early age, had never paid much attention to such an elementary mark of luxury until she took a trip to New York with her father, and explored the sensual pleasures available at the Ritz-Carlton. When she arrived back in Pasadena, she had walked into her bedroom, stripped off the sheets and comforter from her bed, and declared that she would never again sleep on linens as coarse and rough as burlap.

In typical Nora fashion, her mother had simply opened her laptop and pulled up Bloomingdales' website, to allow her younger daughter to select new bedding. It was, of course, a bit ridiculous to indulge a fourteen-year-old girl in such an extravagance, but William, as always, advised his wife to stop worrying about the money and give the girl what she wanted. She was a Walker; in some ways, she was more Walker than any of the others - a fact that would not change as the years went by.

Still, her siblings simply dismissed her rant as another example of "Kitty - being Kitty", and continued to sleep on their perfectly serviceable, usually bought-on-sale percale sheets, and, when Kevin left home - first for college and then for a loft of his own - he saw no reason to change. Fancy sheets were hardly at the top of his list of priorities.

It had taken Scotty to change that: Scotty, though just a simple Southern boy in many ways, was much more sensually-focused than his husband, and thus had educated Kevin about many simple pleasures he'd never before stopped to consider: the mind-blowing softness of a cashmere throw draped over the back of his favorite chair; the exquisite scents and silkiness of Compagne de Provence foaming bubble bath; the incredible flexible comfort of silk-lined, hand-stitched leather gloves; the astonishing taste of the bananas Foster that was the trademark culinary creation of New Orleans' famous Brennan's Restaurant. All of those things and many others he had learned about from Scotty. But none had produced more pleasure than the fantastic silken sensation of a bare body wrapped in 1200-thread-count sheets.

He moaned slightly as he nestled deeper into the velvety texture of the bed, and wakened just enough to wonder why he was cold; Scotty never let him get cold. Scotty was always there, curled up against him, usually using him as a body pillow. So why . . .   
He took a deep breath, stirring slightly, and briefly noticed a nuance of a strange fragrance in the air. It smelled a bit like sandalwood, but that was ridiculous, of course, because Scotty hated sandalwood. So maybe - maybe it was something else. Some kind of spice that was a part of a new recipe Scotty was trying out. He smiled, settling once more into a deeper sleep as he realized that all he had to do was wait a bit, snuggle more comfortably into his soft nest, and give his husband time to finish whatever he was doing and make his way back to their marriage bed.

Their marriage bed - with its 1200-thread-count sheets, its raw silk comforter, its pillows of pure goose-down, and - most precious of all - the lingering scent of the man who made it so perfect. The man whose skin was a sublime taste that Kevin could never get enough of, whose mouth was the breath of his life, whose voice was his favorite music, and whose heart was so beautiful, so filled with kindness, with hope, and - of course - the body . . . the exquisite, sculpted, perfect body that was everything he'd ever wanted in life, the body that would soon return to him and reach for him and carry him to heights of ecstasy and pleasure that he had never experienced with anyone else. The body that . . .

He paused suddenly, something speaking to him, something not normal, not . . . Scotty.

Something was . . .

Wrong. He stirred and opened his eyes and found himself looking at a rectangle of wallpaper with subtle stripes of sage and peach and ivory, pale but clear enough in a patch of moonlight pouring in through sheer curtains stirring slightly in the breeze that had found the small opening in the window beside the bed; an opening that would announce to anyone who knew him well that it was Kevin Walker who was occupying the room. No one knew why he always insisted on opening a window in any room he slept in - not even Kevin - but it was a fact of his existence, one which only became problematic when he was forced to stay in hotels where windows simply did not open.

He blinked hard, spotting the crystal bowl filled with fresh spring blooms - hyacinths and irises and primrose lilacs and calla lilies - which Julia had placed on the antique chest by the window, and recognized it as the source of the scent which had puzzled him earlier. 

So - not sandalwood, and not . . . not some aromatic emanation from a new culinary experiment coming together under Scotty's hands. And - most important of all - not Scotty.

He shifted to his side and buried his face in the lush softness of his pillow, realizing as he did so that his dreaming self had gotten one thing right, at least. The sheets were the same 1200-threadcount that he remembered from his home with Scotty - a luxury that he no longer allowed himself since it did not seem to matter any more. A bed was no longer a place where he could expect to find his fondest dreams realized; it was, instead, a place where he could attempt to escape from reality and find oblivion.

Kevin no longer liked to dream.

He had not allowed himself to sob out his sorrow for quite some time now, confining his expressions of grief to silent tears - even when he was alone. It was not appropriate, after all, for a grown man to wail and weep like a heartbroken child. He had accepted an elemental truth, knowing that the only possible course of action for him was to man up and get on with his life. But he pulled his pillow over his head, careful to muffle any sound he might make. Thus he did not hear the soft click of the bedroom door opening and had no inkling that he was no longer alone until he was startled by the touch of a very small hand on his shoulder, followed by a tiny body climbing into his bed and working its way under the obstacle of his right arm to nestle against his chest. He drew a deep breath, thankful that he had not simply fallen into bed naked after his shower - a practice he frequently indulged in the privacy of his own flat.

"What are you doing in here, Princess?" he whispered, raising his hand to wipe away tears before burying his face in the thick silk of her curls.

"Got scared," Elizabeth answered, her eyes huge as she looked up at him. "Somebody was crying."

Kevin blinked and touched his lips to her forehead. "Maybe you were dreaming, Baby Girl."

"Nope," she replied drowsily, wrapping her arms around his neck. "Somebody was sad."

He sighed. "Lizzie . . ."

"Hush now," said another voice, as a shadowy figure moved into the room and around the bed, to slide beneath the covers and nestle against the little girl's back. "She's already asleep."

Kevin couldn't resist a smile. "If they could see us now . . ."

Julia couldn't quite suppress a giggle. "The Walker clan would go into cardiac arrest."

"You okay with this?" he asked finally.

"Well, the entire western world would be scandalized, I suppose, but I don't really give a shit, you know. My daughter needs the comfort of her parents' arms - both of her parents." She paused for a moment, to run gentle fingers through Lizzie's curls. "And besides, she was right. Somebody was crying, and - in my house - no one is allowed to cry alone."

So saying she reached across her daughter's sleeping body and clasped Kevin's hand, and settled into easy, warm silence. Kevin did not expect to fall asleep; he was in bed with a woman, after all, something that had not happened in more than twenty years, not since he'd made his first and only attempt at a one night stand with a member of the opposite sex. It hadn't worked out, of course, as he'd been pretty sure it wouldn't, but he'd felt that it was hypocritical to claim that he did not like hetero-sex when he'd never even tried it. He'd performed adequately, he supposed; he'd managed to ejaculate and his partner - a casual acquaintance from a pre-law class - had groaned with her completion, but that had been that. In the awkward climax of the evening, they had finally laughed together and admitted the truth. The sex - for the sake of sex - had been adequate, but the earth had not moved and never would. Not for the two of them - together.

Later, they had become friends - sufficiently close to allow them to joke together and refer to that night as 'Kevin's Last Vagina'.

He smiled in the darkness. He hadn't thought of Karen Mitchell for years, and it was comforting, somehow, to touch a memory that did not include a single trace of pain.

Still, he probably wouldn't sleep. He'd probably . . .

He wakened to the tantalizing scent of coffee and the warmth of a tiny body nestled in his arms.

It wasn't anything like the loveliness of waking in his own bed with Scotty's body wrapped around him, of course, but as a substitute, it wasn't so bad.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

"So," said Julia, as she poured coffee into a mug decorated with cartoon sketches of a Chihuahua in a sombrero and a hula skirt, "do we or do we not have a deal?"

Kevin took a sip of the coffee, rich and smooth and full, and found that maybe - just maybe - it tasted just a tiny bit better because of the goofy mug that contained it. But that didn't change the unpleasant truth that he was trying to examine logically. "I don't see how, Jules," he replied finally, regretfully. "She won't understand that she's supposed to keep it a secret, and I won't inflict that on her."

Julia grinned as Elizabeth came racing into the kitchen, wearing Nemo pajamas, and two left slippers - one a bright red, fluffy Elmo and the other a sculpted foam Lakers tennis shoe, complete with multi-color laces - and threw herself into her uncle's arms.

Stirring the oatmeal simmering in a bright red saucepan, Julia watched her daughter's interaction with the man she believed to be her "Unka Kev" with a gentle smile. "Do you expect me to believe that you really want to give this up? That you can just walk away from her, especially given the situation with . . ." She paused, unwilling to speak too candidly and alert Elizabeth to a potential problem. "Well, you know what I mean."

Kevin stared down into beautiful eyes that were almost mirrors of his own, though a bit lighter, with traces of gray, and tried to ignore the knot in his chest. Then he looked up and studied Julia's face. "Do you really believe it? Do you think he'll really give up so much - for this woman?"

"Kevin," she replied firmly, as she dished a generous serving of creamy cereal into a porcelain bowl bright with dancing duck figures, "if you think about it, you'll realize that this wouldn't be the first time. He's done it before. In some ways, 'finding himself' has always taken priority over the obligations of parenthood. Hasn't it? You do remember Mexico, don't you?"

Kevin could only nod. "Yeah, but that still doesn't solve the problem. You can't ask her to keep silent. That's too much to . . ."

"And you, Sir, are a worry-wart. Will you please leave that to me? If it becomes an issue, I'll handle it. But . . ." She leaned forward to fasten a bright rainbow-colored bib around Lizzie's neck, and Kevin caught a tiny glimpse of something sad - almost broken - in her eyes. "But I really don't expect it to happen. He's got other things on his mind now, enough to distract him . . . permanently."

Kevin stirred his coffee and watched Elizabeth chugging a mug of strawberry-flavored milk. "My brother, the idiot," he muttered, not quite under his breath.

"So," Julia continued, pretending she had not heard his softly-spoken words, "do we have a deal? You'll become our Prince Charming, brother of my heart - the one we can always count on - and you make sure you stay in touch. OK?"

Kevin bit his lip and spent a silent moment watching the only child he would ever have - even though he knew his parenthood would never be acknowledged - and was suddenly gripped with a longing almost as intense as the one that he fought off every day of his life - the one that was like a mighty magnet attracting him back to the life he'd abandoned. "No one can know," he said finally. "You understand that, because . . . that's a risk I can't take, Jules. There's too much at stake, too many people who don't deserve to be hurt any more. So you do . . ."

"I promise, Kevin," she answered softly, once more noting the similarities between his expression and the one she sometimes saw on her daughter's face. "Whatever problems we might encounter, it doesn't matter. It's worth it, to keep you in her life." She smiled when she spotted the warm gleam in his eyes, and felt just a slight stirring of guilt for having surreptitiously sneaked a look at his cell phone when he'd gone to shower last night - but it was very slight. She wasn't above a bit of sneakiness to accomplish her goal of having a number where she could reach him if she needed him, if Lizzie needed him. "And to keep her in yours."

A rustle of foliage beyond the open kitchen window announced the rise of a sprightly spring breeze, and Lizzie looked up just in time to spot a swirl of brilliant gem-toned butterflies circling around her mother's prized primrose lilac bush. She laughed and clapped her hands, and Kevin - unable to resist the urge - scooped her up and rushed to the window so she could get a closer view of the lovely tableau. 

Julia sighed and sipped her coffee, knowing that her victory was complete; knowing, in fact, that it had never really been in doubt. Kevin was a much stronger man than he believed himself to be, but that strength was nowhere near enough to give him the power to resist the charms of his beautiful niece/daughter.

He had walked away from his life, believing that he was saving the people he loved, but he would never, ever be able to turn his back on his daughter. Julia frowned. Unless, of course, he should come to the same conclusion about Elizabeth as he had about the rest of his family. She resolved to make sure that would never happen; she would make sure that he always understood how vital he was to his little girl's existence, and if she had to cheat a little in order to succeed, well . . . she would cross that bridge when she came to it.

In truth, she wasn't entirely certain just how she would manage to keep the arrangement secret, but did she really have a choice?

Of course, she was pretty sure that she would have an ally in her endeavors, but that was not a subject she was ready to raise with Kevin. Not just yet. Though he had separated himself from his family and he had always been the Walker most capable of seeing Tommy for the person he really was, rather than the idealized version the rest of the family wanted him to be, it would be unfair to burden him with knowledge that he was not yet ready to face. The fact that Julia had a new 'friend' would be hard for him to handle, even though he would recognize and acknowledge how unfair that was, given Tommy's well known priorities.

She would tell him, of course, but not now. Now was a moment for him to enjoy reconnection with his daughter, and nothing else could be allowed to intrude.

Elizabeth giggled and pointed toward a particularly lively butterfly as it spun and flipped in a gust of wind, while Kevin simply smiled, ignoring the insect in favor of watching his little girl. 

Julia looked on, knowing that she truly had no choice. She had to find a way, because Kevin Walker deserved a place in the life of his biological daughter, and it was up to her to make sure he got what he deserved. She would work it out.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

"Just . . . just look at you," said Michelle, holding Scotty's hands in her own and allowing her eyes to appreciate how handsome he was, and how natural it felt to see him in this setting. His own restaurant. His own very successful, critically acclaimed restaurant.

"You're beautiful, Scotty. And this place is . . . it's . . . I'm speechless."

Scotty - the lovely Scotty she remembered so fondly - blushed and looked down to avoid meeting her eyes. He wasn't sure why he didn't want to see whatever emotion he might read in her expression, but something in his mind insisted that it would show him more than he wanted to know.

"It's so good to see you," he replied, leading her to a seat at the bar. "You remember Saul, I'm sure."

"Of course," she replied, leaning forward to reach across the bar to shake Saul's hand.

"My, my!" said the elder owner of Café 429. "New York must agree with you. You look radiant."

Now it was Michelle's turn to blush, and Scotty frowned slightly, struck by the thought that he had never seen her blush before. The Michelle of old always took compliments in stride - even excessive ones. Thus, her reaction was unexpected, even slightly inappropriate. But . . . he sighed, suddenly embarrassed by his unwarranted suspicions; it seemed petty and uncharitable, given all the discomfort this woman had endured for them - for him and his husband - and how badly Kevin had treated her when everything had gone so horribly wrong. Yes, she had lost their baby - their last chance for a child of their own. But she had not been responsible, had not deserved the burden of guilt which Kevin had tried to place on her. Although that wasn't quite fair either. His husband had not actually accused her; had not actually said anything, but his silence did not mitigate the fact that he couldn't quite suppress some small vestige of uncertainty about her part in the loss of the baby.

In the case of his husband, silence - and the glint in those spectacular azure eyes - often spoke more loudly than words.

Scotty sighed as he wondered when the day would come when he could no longer refer to Kevin by that term? When would Kevin become his "ex"?

He had to turn away for a moment then, leaving Saul to entertain their guest. It was a thought he was not yet ready to process. He frequently doubted that he would ever be ready.

"Scotty," said Saul, "why don't you show Michelle to the booth in the back. You'll have more privacy there, and the lunch crowd looks thin today, so I think I can handle it."

Scotty took a moment to look around and note that there were a few empty tables scattered around the dining room, which supported Saul's observation. "You sure? I could . . ."

"Appearances notwithstanding," Saul interrupted with a trace of impatience, "I am neither senile nor incapacitated. I can handle this without your help. And besides, you two must have a lot to talk about."

"Yes," agreed Michelle, linking her arm through Scotty's in a slightly proprietary manner, "we do. It's been too long."

"All right," Scotty conceded with a small smile, but Saul did not miss the way his young partner extracted his appendage from his old friend's grip in order to guide her toward the slightly more private area toward the rear of the dining room.

Michelle responded with a slight pout. "Doesn't our reunion even rate a special vintage, Scotty?"

Saul smiled. "Not to worry, my dear. One bottle of Fiddlehead Cellars Oldsville Reserve pinot noir coming right up."

He very deliberately ignored Scotty's frown. Yes, it was a moderately expensive choice, but surely the occasion demanded a bit of celebratory excess. He was still smiling when he made his way into the wine cellar area to retrieve the bottle, but the smile faded a bit as he recalled the look of uncertainty he had spotted in Scotty's eyes.

This was getting ridiculous. Yes, of course Scotty still had the right to mourn his separation from Kevin - especially since the young man seemed to become more convinced with every passing day that there would be no happy ending to this story. Saul still had hope, still refused to accept that his nephew would be stupid enough to walk away from the best thing that had ever happened to him - all because of one silly, thoughtless indiscretion.

Unless one conceded that Scotty was right - that Kevin had, in fact, not abandoned anybody, but had, instead, been abandoned by them all.

But no. That was just silly - just Scotty rationalizing to try to absolve Kevin from responsibility. Kevin would come to his senses and come crawling home, and wouldn't that be a hoot when everyone joined together to make him realize the degree of his folly, and force him to beg for forgiveness and work to achieve it.

Wouldn't that be . . . unless it never happened. Unless Kevin was really, truly . . . gone.

Saul retrieved the desired bottle with a grunt. He was just being maudlin and silly, although . . . He was slightly uneasy when he remembered that Jonathon had been uncharacteristically quiet about the whole Kevin/Scotty debacle, and Jonathon was almost never slow to offer his opinions, even when he disagreed with everyone around him. So why, Saul wondered, was his thoroughly opinionated boyfriend so reticent now? What was he thinking . . . and not saying?

An unusual clatter of dishes and a couple of muffled oaths in the kitchen reminded him that he had no time for sitting around maundering. Scotty was entertaining his old friend, so it was up to Saul to don his most professional demeanor and handle the ordinary controlled chaos of the lunch hour. He wanted to give Scotty what he needed at this moment - space and time and an opportunity to retie old, broken bonds.

Obviously, this was something that Scotty needed. He had been too much alone since Kevin had run out on him, and this . . . this would be a good thing for him, a light rising in his darkness.

When Saul approached the private booth and set down the tray bearing the bottle of lovely wine with two cut-glass crystal goblets, the booth's two occupants were so focused on each other that they never even noticed his arrival.

Saul smiled as he turned and walked away, already planning the menu he would serve them, so that they would not need to be distracted from their conversation to select their entrees. He knew what Scotty liked, and he figured he could hardly go wrong in guessing what Michelle would enjoy. It was obvious that she was so fond of Scotty that she would eat whatever was placed in front of her and probably barely even notice what it was.

It was sad that such a love would ultimately be wasted. The two of them would have made a lovely . . .

Saul stumbled to a halt, eyes gone wide with shock. What on earth was he thinking? And why would he even contemplate something so impossible? What kind of romantic nonsense was he producing? He actually cringed as he imagined how Jonathon would laugh at him for indulging such silly fantasies.

He turned back to look at the two, noticing how they were leaning toward each other and the earnestness of their expressions as Michelle spoke and Scotty watched her face with keen interest.

Impossible! Absolutely impossible! But . . .

Saul started forward again, deliberately clearing his thoughts. The question of possibility or impossibility wasn't really his to answer, was it? Ultimately, it was Scotty's. And it wasn't really a question anyway. Scotty was gay - 100% gay. Although . . . no, he would not even think about it.

Instead, he had a lovely, perfect lunch to prepare and a restaurant to run, so there was no time for silly conjecture. And he was suddenly very glad to have his attention demanded elsewhere.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

"So what happened, Scotty?" asked Michelle, as he opened the wine and poured out two servings. "You and Kevin were so . . . so perfect, I can't imagine anything that could have . . ."

Scotty's bittersweet smile silenced her. "Nothing is that perfect, Michelle. Especially when the world around you gets so complicated that you lose yourself in it."

"So tell me," she urged, after taking a sip of the wine. "What came between you?"

He spent a moment contemplating the pale gold liquid in his glass before trying to formulate an answer that would make sense. "We got lost," he said finally. "But not together. We forgot how to find each other."

"That doesn't sound like you."

"Oh, it was me, all right." He sipped and savored the taste of the wine. "Not just me, of course. It took both of us to screw it up, but ultimately, the final, unforgivable mistake was mine. I . . ."

"You what? Come on, Scotty; I know you too well. You always blame yourself, and I know you couldn't have . . ."

"Yes, I could. I let myself forget what he meant to me, what we meant to each other, and I . . . I cheated on him, Michelle. I betrayed him with a 24-year-old boy-toy who played me like a violin - just because he was horny, I guess. Or maybe he was looking for a sugar-daddy. Something - I don't know why. It doesn't matter why, because I did it. It was me."

"Oh, my God!" she whispered. "And what? Kevin caught you?"

"No. No. Kevin wasn't here. That was part of the problem. If he'd been here, it never would have happened."

"Here?" said Michelle. "As in . . . right here, at the restaurant."

Scotty nodded. "Yeah. Right here. Opening night, as a matter of fact. Kevin had promised to be here, but he wasn't. He . . . Kevin wasn't himself back then. He'd gotten lost somehow, in all the trauma and the tragedy. With the accident, with what happened to Robert, with . . ." He fell silent then, flushing slightly.

"You can say it, you know," she offered. "With the loss of the baby. That was part of it too, wasn't it?"

He nodded. "It just seemed like everything had gone wrong for us. And Kevin . . . I don't know. I think he stopped believing in himself. In us. It seemed like every day that passed just pushed us further and further away from each other, until . . . Like I said, we just lost our way."

"Oh, Scotty, you must have been so hurt. How could he have done that to you?"

"Michelle, Kevin didn't do anything to me. I'm the one who betrayed him."

She fell silent then, but something in her eyes - a certain stubborn gleam - suggested that she was not ready to drop the subject. "Scotty," she said finally, "did you . . . were you in love with this guy? Was he . . ."

Scotty's laugh was sharp and bitter. "Once it was finished, all I could feel was revulsion. I couldn't wait to get away from him. At that minute, I knew what I'd done. Look, Michelle, you can sit there and blame Kevin all you want - just like so many in his family blame him. But here's the bottom line; no matter how fucked up things were between us, or how lost he felt, Kevin would have died before betraying me. I know that, and that's what made it so much worse. When I told him about it, one part of me was hoping that he'd just go out and find someone - to get even. A one night stand, and then - Bob's your uncle - all is forgiven. But he didn't. He wouldn't, and I doubt he ever will. Kevin Walker doesn't give his heart easily; I believe, I truly believe, that he was only able to give it . . . once. So here I am, with his heart still in my hands, even though he's gone. And I think he's gone forever because he now believes that it was all his fault - that if he'd been kinder or more attentive or less hurt and lost himself, that I wouldn't have been driven to cheat. So do you know how much that hurts - to think that I made him believe that?"

Michelle sat back and took another taste of the exquisite wine. Then her eyes widened. "Wait a minute! Did you say that you told him about it? Is that how he found out?"

"Yes."

"Dear God in heaven, why would you do that?"

"Because he deserved the truth. Because he had managed to work his way though all the trauma and the pain and find his way back to me, and . . . I couldn't just let him believe that everything that had happened had been his fault. I needed to be honest with him."

"And destroy your marriage? Jesus, Scotty, didn't you realize that your honesty could cost you everything?"

But he was shaking his head. "It wasn't my honesty that destroyed it. It was my infidelity."

"Is that what he said?"

"Initially. Later on, he told me why he didn't show up the night of our opening, and said that he knew that he'd screwed up, that I had a right to be angry. But not angry enough to betray him. That he just couldn't come to terms with."

"But he did admit that he was at fault too?"

Something dark moved in Scotty's eyes as he studied her face. "Michelle, this is not some kind of blame-placing competition, nor an exercise in finding an excuse for my stupidity. Whatever mistakes Kevin made - however wrong his actions might have been - it wasn't justification for what I did. You should have seen his face; you should have seen . . . You know what Kevin's most beautiful physical feature is - what took my breath away the very first time I ever saw him? Those eyes; those incredible jewel-toned eyes that were always filled with light, with hope for the future, with laughter. And I stood there and watched his face when I told him the truth - and saw that light just flicker out. I never saw it again."

She reached across the table and covered his hand with her own. "Scotty, I'm so sorry. It doesn't matter what I think. All that matters is what you think. So . . . what happens now?"

It was at that moment that Saul appeared with a couple of beautifully prepared fresh citrus, arugula salads, and a basket of assorted gourmet breads. He watched expectantly as the diners inspected the presentation, but if he was hoping for approving comments, he was doomed to disappointment. Scotty simply nodded, and picked up his salad fork, and Saul, suppressing a small sigh, returned to the kitchen.

"Now," said Scotty, taking up their conversation exactly where it had stopped, "I learn to accept the fact that my stupid mistake cost me my marriage - and stupidity compounded cost me any hope of retrieving it."

"How so?"

He sighed. "I was so eager to make my case, to get someone in the family to take my side, that I . . . I played the victim. I put on my best 'poor, little me' face, and batted my eyes at the family, and . . . you know, I never really thought it would work. I thought they'd all see how badly I'd hurt him and turn their backs on me. But they didn't. Somehow, they all found a way to forgive me. I became their poster child for forgiveness, and when Kevin couldn't find it in his heart to just let it go and overlook what I'd done, then they all somehow transferred the anger they should have felt toward me . . . to him. All of a sudden, he was the bad guy, the guilty party. And one day - quite suddenly, I think - he began to believe it too."

"And then, what? He just ran away?" she demanded. "Was that supposed to make it up to you?"

"To make it up . . . to me? What exactly is it that you think he needed to make up to me?" Scotty stared at her; then he slowly folded his napkin and set it on his plate as he got to his feet. "And there it is. Welcome to the club, Michelle," he said as he rose. "Become a charter member of the Poor Scotty Pity Society - the association dedicated to overlooking all of Scotty's flaws and blaming Kevin for everything. The group that managed - slowly and insidiously - to turn the tables on him and make him believe that he wasn't good enough for me! Can you believe that? That he - the guy who pulled me out of the gutter and saved my life, who helped me to build a life that was everything I ever wanted, the man who was the best thing that ever happened to me - was suddenly unworthy of the person who used him, took advantage of him, and - ultimately - cheated on him."

"Scotty, I'm sorry. I didn't . . ."

"Yes, you did," he snapped. "Please don't pretend that you didn't mean it. You meant it, just like they meant it. And maybe you've even made up your mind to believe - like they all believe - that Kevin will come crawling back to me, pleading for my forgiveness. But that is never going to happen. If, by some miracle, he should come back, it will be me on my knees, begging for another chance. But it won't, because I've lost him, and nothing else matters. There is nothing else in my life that will ever make up for that. Do you understand me?"

"I do," she whispered. "But . . . I won't accept that, Scotty. There is something else - someone else. There has to be."

Scotty simply stepped back. "Enjoy your lunch, Michelle. You should talk to Saul; the two of you have so much in common."

Michelle simply sat stunned and mute as she watched him walk away. What had happened? She had so much she needed to tell him, and so much she needed to ask him before . . . well, that was a bridge that she wasn't ready to cross. Might never be ready to cross, although things were not - quite - as dark and hopeless as they had been just a few weeks before.

This was discouraging, of course - did not bode well. But maybe - just maybe - the darkness in which she'd lived for so long was just slightly less dense than it had once been.

She sipped at her wine and considered what needed to happen next. Then she looked up and saw that Saul was headed toward her, carrying a luscious looking entrée, wearing an apologetic smile as he approached.

Scotty had suggested that she should talk to his partner, and maybe that was exactly what she should do.

Carefully, of course. Very carefully.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

The restaurant was finally silent, and Scotty was surprised that he was grateful for the suspension of sound. Ordinarily, silence was difficult for him to tolerate. But this day had seemed interminable, especially in that Saul had spent the entire afternoon and evening trying to broker some kind of truce between him and Michelle.

He knew he was being unfair. Michelle had been guilty of nothing other than the same kind of blind loyalty that the entire Walker clan had offered him, but it angered him that none of them seemed to understand that he didn't want their loyalty and their forgiveness.

He wanted to be held accountable, because maybe - just maybe - if someone stepped up to demand some kind of atonement from him, then there would be a tiny chance that he could earn the only forgiveness he really wanted.

Maybe - although probably not. In order for his atonement to gain some kind of absolution, it would be necessary for the absolver to be aware of how much his forgiveness meant and how far Scotty was willing to go to obtain it.

Not likely, since Kevin was no longer within reach.

Scotty turned off all the lights in the kitchen and the dining room, leaving only the wall sconces in the bar burning and headed upstairs, carrying a snifter of very old, very expensive Courvoisier cognac, figuring that he had earned it and that it might help him achieve actual sleep rather than a semi-con . . . He drew a deep breath and tried to swallow the sob that threatened to erupt from his throat.

When, he wondered, would everything in his life stop reminding him of the man he had lost? When . . . or if?

The apartment was dark, except for the glow of the small gooseneck lamp on the desk - the one that had been the harbinger of disaster when he had walked into the loft on the day that Kevin had walked away from his old life; the one that had reflected the gleam of the wedding ring discarded and left behind.

He paused to draw another deep breath.

Memories - everywhere he looked. From the stack of CDs beside the Bose Wave music system - all Kevin-centric. _Wicked, Rent, The Lion King_ , John Barrowman, Elton John, James Taylor, Barbra Streisand, Aerosmith, Nirvana, Melissa Manchester, U2, Clapton, Dylan, Houston, Coltrane, Buffett, Mitchell, McCartney - dozens more. Kevin's taste was nothing if not eclectic, and Scotty realized that most of the CDs would never get played again. He didn't think he could stand to listen to their favorite songs - to Kevin's favorite songs - while the space beside him remained perpetually empty.

The stack of Blu-Ray discs told the same story. _Brokeback Mountain, Moulin Rouge, The Last Picture Show, Lord of the Rings, Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid_ . . . eclectic . . . and lost. Now unwatchable.

He didn't have the heart to turn to study the books lined up in the shelves by the desk; he really didn't need to look anyway. He remembered the authors without looking - from the classics of Oscar Wilde, the who-dunnits of Arthur Conan Doyle, the massive bestsellers by Stephen King, to the English mysteries by Elizabeth George, and everything in between, all gathered around the most dog-eared, shabby volume of all: _To Kill a Mockingbird_ \- which always occupied the place of honor of the favorite. Eclectic, colorful - virtually unlimited. Kevin had been a voracious reader.

Scotty wondered if that was still true, which was just a prelude to wondering if Kevin was still the same person, or if the massive changes in his life had changed the man behind the image.

He felt an intense grief over the possibility that he would never know.

He sank on the sofa, automatically reaching for the ultra-soft cashmere throw that still held a faint scent of the man who had loved to cocoon himself within it. A sip of the brandy sat smoothly on his tongue as he inhaled, seeking the fragrance of memory.

He was in the process of shucking off his shoes, preparing to spend the night (again) on the sofa instead of making his way to his too-empty bed, when the phone rang.

The land line - which no one ever called; which was a derelict of a bygone era, before the advent of cell service; which didn't even have caller ID, since no one ever used it.

Probably a crank caller or someone taking a political survey, or a determined telemarketer, although the hour (almost one A.M.) seemed to argue against the latter. 

He was tired, and he should just let it ring.

And it did. It rang, and it rang, and it rang, and it rang and it . . .

"Dammit!" He pushed up from the sofa and grabbed the offending handpiece before it could ring again. "Hello!"

"Well, hey there, Eye candy. Lovely as it is to listen to those dulcet tones, I really need to speak to Kevin, and what the fuck's up with him? I'm getting a 'not in service' signal on his cell."

"Yeah. That would be about right. Hi, Chad."

Of all the people in the world that he didn't want to talk to, Scotty figured that Chad Barry would easily rank among the top five.

"What do you mean? What's right about that? Where the hell is he?"

"Let me guess," Scotty said softly, rubbing tired eyes with thumb and forefinger. "You've been out of town."

"Right. Shooting a new series in the desert. In Morocco. I just got back yesterday, and walked right into a major I-don't-believe-this-shit moment. And I need to talk to Kevin. Something I really, really need to tell him."

"Chad, I . . ."

"Come on, Boy-toy. Where is . . ."

"Don't call me that." It was just a joke, and Scotty knew it. But right now, he just wasn't in the mood for jokes. "You can't talk to him, because he's not here."

"Then where is he? Come on, Scotty. This is important."

And something in his voice - a note of what might be excitement, or even desperation - made Scotty sit down and grip the phone more tightly. "What is? What's so important?"

But Scotty was not the only one capable of identifying undercurrents in voices; Chad Barry was pretty good at noting and diagnosing nuances too.

"It's Kevin I need to speak to, Scotty," he said finally, almost gently. "Where is he?"

Scotty suddenly found it hard to draw breath, because he really didn't want to say it. He especially didn't want to say it to this particular person - this person who might, if the wind had been blowing in the right direction, and the timing had been a little less awkward, or the circumstances had shifted just slightly left or right - might have been the man who was able to claim Kevin's heart and keep it forever.

But he couldn't lie. It wouldn't be fair. And besides, Chad knew something. It was there in his voice, in the hitch of his breath as he waited for an answer. It was something that mattered, something that might make a difference.

"Kevin's gone, Chad. He's gone, and I don't know how to find him."

There was a beat of silence before the actor responded, his voice suddenly rough and cold. "What did you do, Scotty?"

Scotty would never be able to explain the small surge of relief that cursed through him; he had been waiting a very long time for someone to demand an answer to that question.

"I . . . " He had to swallow around the huge lump in his throat, unable to summon the breath to speak.

"What - did - you - do?" Chad repeated, the ice in his tone transforming into blazing heat, barely controlled.

"I betrayed him. That's . . . that's what I did. I broke his heart."

The only answer was a beat of heavy silence, followed by the click of the phone - gentler than expected - as the line went dead, before buzzing to life with the incessant whine of the dial tone.

Scotty sat very still, allowing the tears to take him, acknowledging the truth. Whatever Chad might know, whatever wisdom he might have gained, he would never disclose it to Scotty. It was a secret, meant only for Kevin, and he would never reveal it to anyone else, no matter what.

Which meant that Scotty would remain ignorant. The secret would remain a secret, locked away until Kevin came forth to claim it; hidden forever if that was how long it took, if - the pain in Scotty's chest was suddenly almost unbearable - if Kevin never came home again.

* _The Velveteen Rabbit_ \- Margery Williams

tbc


	8. Autumn Fields

Chapter 8: Autumn Fields

_Tears, idle tears, I know not what they mean,_  
 _Tears from the depth of some divine despair_  
 _Rise in the heart and gather to the eyes,_  
 _In looking on the happy autumn-fields,_  
 _And thinking of the days that are no more._

 

\-- _The Princess_ , Part iv, Line 21 --- Alfred, Lord Tennyson

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

It was not supposed to be like this, he thought. Beautiful, brilliant foliage - gold and amber and russet and garnet and a dozen other jewel tones that glowed in the sunlight like new embers under a breath of air - was supposed to happen in Vermont or New Hampshire. Not California. But denying it was futile. This year, in this place, autumn had waved its magic wand, and the landscape had blazed to spectacular life with the turn of the seasons. 

November was supposed to be the beginning of the end, the first dire breath of winter, but instead, it felt like the whole world had decided to celebrate life at its most prolific and defy any looming threat of darkness.

The whole world seemed to be shouting to express an exuberant passion for living.

The whole world. Almost.

He was sitting astride his Harley in a lay-by at the brink of a long curving valley thick with western cottonwood and mountain ash - each specimen brighter and more colorful than the one before, all set against the dark evergreens climbing the escarpment across the divide toward a rough jumble of boulders at the cliff's crest that provided the foundation for a small waterfall that tumbled in stair-steps down the incline to find the narrow river at the valley's bottom.

The sun rode low now on the western horizon, pouring liquid gold onto everything beneath it. Life beautiful - squared.

He took a deep breath, savoring the crispness of the air. It had been a difficult summer, long and warmer than usual, and he'd kept himself busy, working multi-shifts at the pub, and even hiring out to one of the local vintners in his spare time, calling on knowledge of winery operations that he was surprised to be able to recall. He'd worked a couple of summer jobs in Ojai, for local winemakers, before the family had relocated to Pasadena, and he found that he remembered more than he'd thought he would. 

But he'd realized quickly that he needed to be careful. Revealing any extensive familiarity with the winemaking process might give rise to questions he was not prepared to answer. In the interest of discretion, he ignored any jobs available in skilled positions and stuck to various types of manual labor. He wouldn't even think about getting involved with the actual creation of the wines, but he saw no harm in exercising skills for packaging and shipping.

He had been surprised to learn that he didn't hate it as much as he'd expected to, especially since it turned out to be perfect for his true purpose. He didn't really need the money; he needed the focus. He needed something - anything - to occupy his time and his thoughts and keep him from dwelling too much on lost memories.

As summer waxed and waned, he had made a few casual friends - little more than acquaintances really - except for Belinda Bell and her husband, Charlie, a wheel-chair bound Vietnam veteran who had been elected mayor of the village the previous year and was kept busy with his civic duties, thus necessitating the hiring of a new bartender. Though the Bells had accepted Kevin into their lives and welcomed him into employment at the pub, neither had ever made any attempt to delve into his past. He was pretty sure that both had sensed his compulsive need to safeguard his privacy; equally sure that they probably discussed and speculated together. But he was endlessly grateful that they had never indulged their curiosity or subjected him to any kind of in-depth interrogation.

They liked him; they had come to trust him, and he had come to like them as well. Despite his steady determination to lead a solitary existence, he had found that it was not so easily accomplished. Even something as simple as having someone look up and smile a greeting as he came down the stairs from his loft apartment in the morning took on an astonishing amount of meaning when it was so rare.

Everything seemed to work well enough, although he would have been surprised to realize that he hadn't been quite as successful as he'd hoped, in convincing the people around him that he was just another common drifter, looking for a simple way to make a living. 

As it happened, hiding his history was not a terribly big deal; hiding his intelligence and his education was much harder, especially in unguarded moments.

He shivered slightly, noting the chill in the air and knowing that this glorious explosion of color and vigor would be short-lived, although nothing really was, any more. Not from a perspective in which time seemed to drag by at a snail's pace.

Six months.

That's how long it had been since he'd been Kevin Walker - attorney at law, son - brother - uncle. Husband.

Six months - AKA forever, with each day longer than the one before.

This one had been particularly rough, and he cringed now, remembering how stupid he'd been during one incredibly awkward moment after the departure of the regular lunch crowd.

From the very beginning of his attempt to integrate himself into the population of Piper's Canyon, he'd realized that he had to be very careful around the students from the local college, with its liberal arts and pre-law programs. It was fine to display a casual familiarity with popular movies and even best-selling fiction, but a comprehensive knowledge of fine arts, classic literature, or legal precedents - that was entirely something else again, something that no common bartender or ordinary ex-salesman would be expected to demonstrate.

He wondered if it would ever feel natural, this new skin that he was forced to wear. He wondered if the man he'd once been - the smart-ass, know-it-all, superior contrarian - would ever disappear completely beneath the placid, nondescript identity he'd assumed.

 _Stupid, stupid, stupid!_ he thought, sitting there in the dying light of day, remembering that it had happened so quickly, so naturally, that it took a moment - only a moment but still too long - before he realized what he'd done.

The students from the local college had identified him in his first days on the job as new to the trade and potentially vulnerable to manipulation, so it went without saying that they just had to try their luck. He had been amiable enough, even pretended to play along for a while until one particularly precocious young stud muffin had stepped up to the bar and ordered Manhattans all around, for him and his best buds.

Kevin had smiled, had even picked up the bottle of Jim Beam and moved as if to pour. Then he'd paused, leaned forward directly into the college boy's face and replied with easy warmth. "Coming right up, Sport. Just as soon as I see that ID that you've got tucked away in your wallet. The real one. Not the fake."

"What makes you think . . ." The kid had spluttered, and Kevin's smile had grown wider as he realized he'd never actually seen anyone do that before. Cute kid - gray eyes, dark auburn hair, dimples, and a body (like most college boys) to die for, but completely off limits, for two reasons - totally straight and way too young, even if Kevin had felt some stirring of interest. Which he hadn't.

Somewhere along the path between the yesterday he had lost and the today he occupied, he had somehow just . . . lost interest.

Kevin had leaned back and let his eyes sweep the faces of the group gathered behind their brave leader - lovely faces, every one, but slightly tinted with embarrassment at that moment, as they realized that they'd been completely busted. One - a buxom brunette with startling green eyes - had looked back at him as if speculating on her chances of either changing his mind or persuading him to make at least one exception. But he'd maintained his cool, unflappable demeanor, and she had eventually realized that she was wasting her time.

They'd never tried again - not that particular gambit anyway, although some of the girls had made a bit of a game of seeing which of them could attract the beautiful blue eyes of the new bartender. None were serious, of course; he was too mature and too far out of reach, but he was still handsome enough to qualify as eye candy, and they'd rather enjoyed the game.

Of course, not everyone who came into the pub was a student. There were, in fact, a fair number of unattached, attractive women who were members of the college staff, and some of them made no secret of their interest in the soft-spoken, perpetually quiet young man behind the bar.

He'd had to constantly remind himself to be extremely careful - showing some small signs of seeming enticed but never enough to make a reciprocal move. With the boys, it had been easier to find a way to avoid all suspicion; he'd simply pretended to be a combination of Tommy and Justin, and so far, it had worked out well.

Sometimes - usually when he was alone - he allowed himself a moment of regret, wondering if he would ever again dare to be himself.

But earlier this afternoon, he had been caught completely unawares, and he still wasn't sure that he'd avoided disaster.

David Blanchard was the boy's name - of the Santa Monica Blanchards - which said plenty about his origins and his pedigree and his future, and he definitely lived up to the image and the social status of a storied family tree that stretched back seven generations to the very foundations of the state of California.

He was tall and well built, and he was twenty-two years old so he was legal and perfectly within his rights to sit at the bar and demand his favorite libation - a vodka martini, a concoction which Kevin had mastered after a few minor disasters, each misstep drawing snarky, condescending comments from the young socialite.

Blanchard definitely looked the part of the mover-and-shaker-to-be, and he certainly exhibited the necessary arrogance, the charm, the self-confidence, the physique, and - of course - the wardrobe to carry off the role. In fact, he had everything that he needed to succeed in taking on the life laid out before him.

Every single thing - except one.

David Scofield Blanchard had the intellectual capacity of a wild goat - and the tenacity to match.

His great grandfather had been a judge on the California Supreme Court; his grandfather had founded the law firm of Blanchard, Maxwell, and Scofield, which was now one of the largest in the state and continuing to grow under the oversight of his father. His mother was the daughter of Jonas Scofield, his grandfather's partner in that legendary firm.

It was therefore almost carved in stone that David Scofield Blanchard would become an attorney, would graduate summa cum laude, would pass the bar with flying colors on his first attempt, and assume his rightful place in the panoply of his family's existence.

This was what was expected, what was required, even what the Fates decreed.

The reality was something else entirely, and a simple demonstration of that fact was the thing that had led Kevin into dangerous territory.

He was polishing shot glasses and arranging them on the shelf when Blanchard the Younger (as Kevin thought of him) took a stool at the bar, and demanded the usual. His tone was brusque, almost rude, and Kevin took his time in turning to prepare his cocktail.

"Now!" the student almost roared, noticing Kevin's laconic response, and two men seated at a corner table, lingering over a late lunch, turned to watch and see what would happen next.

Kevin, as always, did not react well to being roared at. "Easy, Big Boy," he said steadily, as he moved to grab a martini glass and a bottle of Smirnoff. "Whatever's got your knickers in a twist isn't worth blowing an aneurism, now is it?"

"When I want your opinion . . ."

"You'll ask for it politely," said Belinda Bell as she moved out of the kitchen to approach the young man, arms folded and eyes bright with icy disapproval, "or you can haul your sorry ass out of here and find another place to swill your martinis. I think there's a saloon over in Hemphill - about fourteen miles east of here. Of course, it doesn't exactly cater to the college crowd. More of a biker bar, but when you're really thirsty I guess it doesn't make much difference."

Then she looked at Kevin and favored him with a fond smile. "What do you think, Kevin? Some of those bad boys would probably love to get their hands on this sweet young thing."

Kevin continued to prepare the requested martini, moving without haste, and not quite successful in suppressing the smile that touched his lips.

David Blanchard, fashionably shaggy haircut hiding his eyes, tucked his head and mumbled something, obviously trying to save face in front of the three young companions who had entered with him, and Kevin's smile grew wider. The kid must surely have known better.

"What was that?" demanded Belinda. "I didn't quite catch it."

"'M sorry," he said, just barely audible.

She studied his face for a moment, and it was obvious that she was considering whether or not to let it pass - or to make good on her threat. No one in the bar doubted that she could do exactly that. Given her husband's longtime disability, Belinda had been bouncing obnoxious drunks out of the pub for most of her adult life and had learned a thing or two about how and where to apply force over the years.

In the end, she let it go, but her expression made it clear that she'd almost gone for the alternative, so the young man decided to behave himself - at least in his treatment of the help.

Still, he was in a terrible mood, as he proved after Belinda chose to walk away, when he accepted the martini Kevin handed him and gulped it down, while his friends took seats around him and placed their orders. "God-damned Palmeroy!" he snarled. "He does everything he can to embarrass me. What fucking difference does it make if I know every friggin' word of his precious Gideon v Wright or . . ."

"Wainwright," Kevin replied automatically as he served up draught beers in heavy glass mugs. "Gideon v Wainwright.* And there's a famous quote that explains why you should know it. 'Judicial judgment must take deep account of the day before yesterday in order that yesterday may not paralyze today.'** It was Felix . . ."

Kevin fell silent abruptly as he realized that the entire room had gone dead still, and everyone in it was staring at him with mouths agape.

"What . . . what did you say?" That was Blanchard, who - at the best of times - didn't like being shown up.

But Kevin looked up and fixed the student with a cold stare that made the boy think twice before speaking again. He was not accustomed to being challenged by anyone, especially a common bartender, but he knew instinctively that - just this once - he would be wise to shut his mouth.

Kevin Wynter had always impressed young Blanchard as the most mild-mannered of men, but something in those blue eyes - eyes gone bright with a hard glitter - made him think he might need to re-evaluate his opinion - and keep his smart comments to himself.

And that might have been the end of it as the group of students beat a hasty retreat. The problem was that they had not been the only ones paying attention.

Belinda Bell chose not to say anything, but her eyes - gray with occasional glints of mossy green - were alive with speculation. Still, she was very good at controlling her curiosity and giving Kevin whatever space he needed.

The same could not be said, however, for one of the other individuals who had observed the exchange with uncommon interest, and Kevin struggled to suppress an urge to sigh. Sometimes he thought that if he didn't have bad luck, he'd have no luck at all.

Brian Padgett was "Bad Luck" personified, and Kevin had sensed it from the first time he'd ever come face to face with the man. 

On that infamous September day, he had been nose-deep in his bartending guide, trying to find a recipe for a cocktail called a "Scarlet O'Hara" for a new customer - an assistant registrar at the college who hailed, originally, from West Monroe, Louisiana - when he heard someone open the front door and rush in, accompanied by the sound of a driving, wind-swept rain. He had looked up and . . . 

Time - for the space of a heartbeat - had ground to a halt, as hazel eyes met blue, and a spark of something - something odd and unexpected - erupted between the two. There and gone too quickly to analyze properly, but a bit too familiar for comfort.

The coloring was wrong - completely - and the clothing was entirely too posh. But the physique and the profile - a distinct shadow against the monsoon raging outside - had been heartbreakingly familiar, and, for a single moment, Kevin had almost allowed himself to murmur that name - that name he never spoke any more. Suddenly, he'd been so consumed with the despair of missing his husband that he'd almost forgotten how to do what he knew he needed to do, what he'd learned to do from the beginning: just breathe through it, and seek serenity in the mental mantra that had become his almost constant companion. _Everything passes with time._

On that day, he'd made certain to give no opportunity for speculation and quickly returned to his research, but the newcomer apparently had no such reservations.

"Christ on a Crutch!" he'd exclaimed, running long fingers through a thatch of dark brown hair. "What ever happened to 'It Never Rains in California'?"

Kevin hadn't quite been able to suppress a smile. "The Mamas and the Papas grew up and realized it only applies to LA. The rest of us just deal with the downpour."

Tall-dark-and-beautifully-built had peeled off a soaking wet Polo jacket, tossed it toward a convenient coat rack, and strolled across the room to take a seat at the bar, while Kevin had deliberately kept his head down, refusing to notice that the strolling definitely contained elements of deliberate provocation. But in the end, he had not been able to ignore the hand that was extended toward him - solid and tanned with long, strong fingers. "I'm Brian Padgett," the stranger had said by way of introduction. "I just started teaching at the college."

Kevin had looked up then, and allowed his eyes to perform a quick inspection and note the True Religion jeans and the Bugatchi sports shirt, before offering a response. "Let me guess. Fashion design."

Padgett's grin had been broad and brilliant. "No, smart ass. Anthropology. And what's your specialty?"

Kevin had been forced to fight off an urge to smile in return. "Saloon psychology, or - more accurately - How to Bust Up a Bar Fight Without Inflicting Permanent Damage."

Padgett's hand had remained steady - waiting for a response.

With a sigh to acknowledge the futility of trying to ignore the other man, Kevin had extended his own. "Kevin Wynter. Mixologist."

"Good to meet you, Mr. Wynter. And even better to discover an actual, honest-to-God pub way out here in the boonies."

Kevin had gone back to flipping through his recipe book. "And what would your sophisticated palette require on this rainy afternoon, Professor?"

"Maker's Mark on the rocks. And I'm not a professor. Just an associate, conducting a seminar for the semester. Come spring I'm gone again." He'd accepted the drink from Kevin and taken a deep draught, before continuing. "Adventure awaits."

Despite himself, Kevin had been interested. "What kind of adventure?"

Padgett had shrugged, and Kevin had refused to notice the play of well-developed muscles under the soft fabric of the forest green shirt. "Whatever kind I can find. I just got back from a dig in the Mexican Valley. Next summer, I'm hoping for Israel, which is . . ."

"The Holy Grail, for archeologists. Right?" Kevin had interrupted, still not looking at the man's face.

Padgett's laugh had been every bit as warm and rich as his appearance had promised. "No. That would be Egypt, but it's close enough. Until I get to the Amazon River Basin anyway. That's my ultimate goal, because it's all new. Almost unexplored."

Unable to resist the curiosity that had been his Achilles heel throughout his life, Kevin had looked up and found himself momentarily speechless as he confronted those hazel eyes, spotting glints of slate gray, and acid green, and dark amber within them. Up close, there was really no resemblance at all to that well-remembered individual who would remain nameless, but the lack of familiarity was almost a blessing and didn't change the fact that the man was ruggedly handsome. "What's there to study?" he had managed finally. "I mean, isn't anthropology the study of the rise of civilization? So what's to study in a place that hasn't really changed since . . ."

Padgett had settled himself on a bar stool, as he interrupted. "Ah, but is that really the case?" he'd retorted. "That's how the general public sees it, as if the region was frozen in a little prehistoric pocket of history. But that makes it the perfect place to delve into how civilization evolves, and how it doesn't."

They had never become friends, exactly. They might have, but Kevin knew better than to allow it. Still, they had occasionally indulged in conversations, exchanged opinions on current events, the latest scandal to rock the college campus, or who made the best bourbon in the country. And - once or twice - they'd gotten into bitter disagreements, mostly over political issues, something that Kevin tried to avoid, for he knew himself well enough to understand that allowing his passions to flare might very probably lead to words best left unspoken

But no amount of caution or wariness had been sufficient to prevent the little spark of interest that ignited in his mind every time the not-quite-professor dropped into the Pub, which had happened rather frequently. And no amount of deliberate ignorance had ever been quite enough to keep him from seeing the exact same spark erupt in hazel eyes.

Danger - squared. That was Brian Padgett.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

He took another moment to enjoy the view and then glanced at his watch - the minimalist Seiko that he had purchased to replace the Rolex he dared not wear any longer. He had packed it away carefully, deliberately not looking at the engraving on its back. He did not need to look at it anyway; he knew it by heart.

_Our son - the lawyer. We are so proud of you._

He had not been able to convince himself to sell it, given its history - a history he no longer allowed himself to think about if he could avoid it.

A stray memory flared - the look on his father's face when his mother had presented it to him on the occasion of his graduation - magna cum laude, of course - from Stanford Law School, and receipt of multiple awards for his work with the Stanford Community Law Clinic during the course of his studies. But the memory of that grimace that was not - quite - an eye-roll was almost as painful to him as the recollection of the moment when he'd seen the pain in his husband's eyes at the moment of his Great Epiphany.

He shook his head, annoyed with his own overly dramatic inclinations. These days, he seemed to capitalize everything.

Time to go.

The ride back to town was short - only twelve minutes - and pleasant, but it was not particularly peaceful. 

He had taken the bike out in an attempt to settle his mind - to soak up the beauty of the hills and lay aside his concerns.

It hadn't worked.

Nothing would, he knew, until Brian Padgett had sidled up to the bar and asked the question that he'd been dying to ask since that awkward moment earlier in the day. Kevin had been braced for it, had expected it to happen immediately. But it hadn't. Padgett had simply finished his meal, paid his tab, and departed in the company of the sociology professor - a dour individual with a head that evoked memories of Yul Brynner - with whom he'd had lunch.

He had ignored Kevin completely, except for one moment as he was leaving, when he'd looked back to find the bartender clearing away empty glasses and discarded napkins. He'd paused for a moment, just long enough to force Kevin to look up and meet his gaze.

Then he'd smiled - a strange, slightly smug smile - and walked out into the golden afternoon sunlight.

Kevin had been filled with anxiety ever since.

He had thought it through completely and come up with an explanation that should be believable, that almost anyone would accept.

The key word, of course, was 'almost'.

He had learned over the course of their acquaintance that Brian Padgett was remarkably intuitive and thus, difficult to lie to.

But one thing was certain. The man might have managed to clamp down on his curiosity sufficiently to allow him to walk out of the pub without getting an answer to his questions, probably because he had other things he needed to do. But he would be back - and soon.

Probably tonight.

Kevin decided, abruptly, that he needed a drink, but only one. One stiff drink to take the edge off, but not enough to make him careless.

He parked his bike in the narrow alley behind the pub and climbed the exterior stairs to reach his tiny loft apartment - tiny, but adequate. In truth, almost anything would be adequate these days; he didn't spare much thought to the size or the décor or the ambiance of the rooms he occupied. The apartment was safe and convenient and clean and provided a place where he could go to lock out the world, and that was all he required.

Scotty would have been astonished, he thought. Then he flinched away from the thought.

Scotty would never get a chance to be astonished, because Scotty would never see it. He deliberately emphasized the name in his mind, allowing the pain to hit him hard and fierce.

The hurt would help him get ready for the confrontation that lay ahead. The fresher the pain, the greater his strength would be in resisting any temptation to reveal more than he should.

Another glance at his watch revealed that he had just time enough for a shower - a quick one with no opportunity for loitering or indulging in . . . well, never mind what he might want to indulge. There was no time, and that was the way he liked it.

The bathroom was tiny, but spotlessly clean (demonstrating the continued existence of one habit he retained from his previous life). It had only a small sink, a toilet, and a shower, but it was enough for its lone occupant, and the water was always hot and plentiful, for which he was grateful.

He didn't allow himself to cry much any more, but, when he did, the shower was the perfect place for it, the thick stream of water covering a multitude of sins.

But not today. No time.

He dressed quickly - choosing from the collection of Dockers slacks and Polo shirts that had replaced Armani and Louis Vuitton in his professional wardrobe, and headed downstairs where he found Belinda behind the bar, putting the finishing touches on a tray full of pina coladas.

"Let me guess," he said in lieu of hello. "A tourist bus?

"Worse," she replied, tucking little pastel umbrellas into the glasses. "I believe the Brits call it a 'hen party'."

He frowned. "Better you than me."

"Oh, come on," she replied with a grin. "They're in the party room, and I'm sure they'd love a visit from a handsome waiter - Chippendale-style, you know."

"You are a dirty old woman," he laughed, inordinately grateful for the way she had of setting his mind at ease.

"Who you calling old?"

Then she was gone, lifting the tray and leaving him with a smile, as he heard her open the door to the party room which was more commonly used for children's birthday parties. There she was greeted with boisterous laughter and shouts of welcome.

He poured himself a double shot of Beam, wiped the bar - more out of habit than need - and settled down to wait.

He had no idea how long it would take, but he was virtually certain that the confrontation would happen before midnight - closing time.

The café side of the pub was busy, as usual - regular customers, families, students weary of the fare in the college cafeteria, truckers passing through, workers just getting off from their shift at the local box factory - and Belinda was busy, as was Georgia, the regular waitress, and Barney the cook, which left Kevin to cater to the bar patrons and the ladies of the 'hen party'. The latter he managed with a remarkable degree of aplomb, since the eight girls in the group - college students all - were well and thoroughly inebriated by the time he entered with a new round of their fruity drinks, and they all welcomed his arrival with enthusiastic cheers, naughty suggestions, and more than a few gropes of his backside.

He managed to laugh it off, although one particularly determined young redhead succeeded in pinching his butt hard enough to leave bruises, to the delight of her companions. He learned later that she was the bride-to-be, the honoree of the occasion, and he figured that the young man who would be waiting at the altar for her the next day was in for quite a boisterous experience in the bridal chamber.

Business in the bar was relatively slow, which was not an advantage from Kevin's perspective. He would rather have been busy.

Still, customers drifted in and out, and a couple of employees of a local winery dropped in for nightcaps, inviting him to join them in a discussion about best vacation spots in Baja. He was enjoying the conversation, although making sure to keep his comments non-committal, when the front door opened and Brian Padgett walked in alone.

He looked neither right nor left, but came straight across the room to take a seat at the end of the bar, which was the quietest and darkest spot in the entire pub.

Kevin waved his good night to the winemakers before reaching for a new bottle of Maker's Mark and moving down to the corner, trying very hard not to look too anxious.

"The usual?" he asked, lifting the bottle and reaching for a glass.

Padgett nodded.

The silence between them was heavy, which was uncommon. They didn't always talk when Padgett dropped in for drinks. Sometimes, their exchange was limited to a nod and a softly spoken 'thank you', when Kevin poured. 

But this was different.

"Something on your mind?" That was Kevin, realizing that he'd rather have the question asked and answered than wait around anticipating the worst.

"How did you know?" Padgett's tone was cold, clipped.

"Know what?" Kevin replied as he poured out a generous measure of the whiskey.

Padgett drew a deep, impatient breath. "Don't play dumb. How did you know about that legal precedent?"

Kevin took his time answering, careful to be certain that his hand was steady, without tremor, as he topped off the drink. "It's a pretty famous case, you know."

"I do. Some would even say infamous. In certain parts of this country anyway."

At that, Kevin looked up, eyes narrowing. "And would you be one of them?"

"What if I was?"

Kevin looked down again, but not before a faint shadow of disappointment rose in his eyes - and was noticed. "A hell of a lot of people - those who think with their heads and not their dicks - consider it one of the most important decisions ever handed down by the Court." He looked up again, and didn't bother trying to disguise his impatience. "I never took you for a bloody right-wing redneck."

Padgett took a sip of his drink. "Nice try, but we both know that's not what this is about."

"No? Then why don't you . . ."

"You're supposed to be a down-on-your-luck ex-salesman, who took up bartending to put a roof over your head. So how the hell . . ."

"You don't know me, Professor." Kevin snapped, deliberately emphasizing the title, heavy with sarcasm and sharp with anger. "And you don't know anything about my life. So suffice it to say that I haven't always been who I am now. That I haven't always been alone."

"Meaning what, exactly?"

Kevin bit his lip, trying to suppress the outrage growing within him, an outrage that was old and bitter and had virtually nothing to do with the argument at hand. "Meaning - first of all - that it's none of your business how I know whatever I might know. And meaning that I once had . . . someone - someone important to me. Someone who spent a lot of time studying things like legal precedents and court cases and, occasionally, needed my help. Someone who . . . was a big part of my life. Okay? Understand?"

"Kevin, I . . ." Padgett fell silent for a while, considering how to proceed. "I don't know what to say. I . . . I overstepped, and I had no right. Your personal history is your own, and I shouldn't have intruded. I really am sorry."

Kevin looked into shadowed hazel eyes and was stricken suddenly with a deep feeling of guilt. There was sincere regret in every line of Padgett's face, and Kevin found that he could hardly bear knowing that he had put it there by taking a semi-truth and twisting it around to conceal the facts of a life that he could not share, a life forever lost to him.

It seemed that every single day, he learned a little more about how deeply he hated living a lie.

"It's all right," he said finally. "I just don't like to talk about the past."

Padgett nodded. "Can I ask . . . were you married?"

Kevin sighed, and decided to tell the truth, in his own unique way. "Not quite."

Padgett finished his drink before looking up and waiting for Kevin to decide to meet his eyes, which took a while.

"She must have been very special," he said softly.

Kevin could only nod and swallow the discomfort of the deception, amazed to realize how much pain could result from a single, seemingly innocuous pronoun. "Yes. Very."

Awkwardly, still obviously embarrassed, Padgett got to his feet and turned to go. But then he stopped and looked back to study Kevin's face, his eyes now bright with a speculative gleam. "Hey," he said after a short silence, "you play tennis?"

Kevin almost gasped, almost felt his breath catch in his throat, and knew - immediately - what he should say, what he must say, but - somehow - what he couldn't say.

"I've been known to swing a racket or two in my day."

_Shit! Why on earth . . ._

"You free tomorrow afternoon?"

Once more, a voice in his mind was screaming at him; once more, he ignored it. "I could probably spare a couple of hours. Where?"

Padgett shrugged. "The school courts are adequate, but Amberwood Country Club is much nicer."

Kevin smiled. "Sorry. Not a member."

"But I am, courtesy of my faculty status - so . . . Three o'clock?"

Every instinct in Kevin's body was united in a chorus that shrieked at him to just say no.

"Three o'clock, it is."

Padgett strolled away, his customary easy good nature completely restored, as Kevin fought down an urge to groan, and pour himself another double.

He was, in fact, on the verge of doing just that when his cell phone rang. A quick glance at the caller ID generated the first real smile he'd experienced all day.

"Hey, Big Sister," he answered quietly, after a quick look around to make sure no one was paying him any attention.

"Who you calling big, Baby Brother?" replied Julia, a smile implicit in the warmth of her voice. "What's up?"

"I'm sitting here feeling sorry for myself, so please, please, please, tell me a story about my beautiful niece's latest escapade."

Julia laughed. "Why don't I let her tell you herself."

His hesitation was brief, but noticeable.

"Hey," she said softly. "It's okay. I told you it would be, and it is."

He closed his eyes and rubbed his temple with a weary thumb. "He hasn't been around, has he?"

"No." She did not sound angry or disappointed. Just resigned. "As expected. He has a new toy to occupy his time."

"I'm sorry," he replied, sparing a moment to wonder how he'd wound up with such a stupid ass for a brother - a man who could have played a huge role in his daughter's life, who might even have managed to regain his ex-wife's trust and affection, but chose instead to chase after the latest skirt to catch his fancy - a skirt who undoubtedly held a master's degree in pumping up the male ego.

"Don't be. It's not your fault. He does bother to call occasionally - mostly to make excuses and let me know how terribly busy he is. Apparently, he's in the process of becoming a real estate mogul. But enough about him, and on to what's really important. Would you like to hear the tale of the newest member of the household, not to mention the newest love of Lizzie's life?"

His smile was gentle. "Should I be jealous?"

"Not for a minute," she replied fondly. "Nothing will ever replace you in her heart. She's so excited to tell you her news that she's bouncing around like a ping-pong ball. You ready to listen?"

"Absolutely."

There was a brief rustling, and then Lizzie's voice filled his ear, not to mention his heart. "Unca Kev, guess what? Mommie and Jeff bought me a real live turtle, and it lives in my t'rarium, and it's name is Tock-a-lok, and it takes a long, long time for it to walk across the bottom, and Mommie says I have to be careful not to feed it chocolate, but it likes . . ."

The story wound on, and Kevin realized quickly that what his daughter was saying didn't matter in the least; what mattered was that she was the one saying it. He smiled and closed his eyes, luxuriating in the cadence of her words and the . . .

_Wait! Mommie and . . . who?_

He continued to listen, still reveling in the moment and in the love he heard in that adorable little voice, but now with a purpose, with a goal in mind once the story was done.

" . . . he even has his own lamp so he can sun . . . sun-bave if he feels like it, and he has food sticks and stuff. And ya know what? Mommie says I get to go to a tumblin' class next week and learn how to do tricks and stuff. Will you come watch me do tricks and stuff?"

He waited a second or two, just to be sure she was finished, before replaying. "Of course, I will. I bet you'll do the best tricks of anyone in the class."

Her response was a giggle that seemed to penetrate his heart and root around for a place to call its own. "Ya wanta come meet Tock-a-lok? He's really cool."

"Absolutely, I do. But I can't get away right now. Too much work to do. But soon, Baby Girl. Soon, I promise."

A gentle murmur must have prompted her to surrender the phone, because a quick, "Bye,bye, Unca Kev. I love you" was followed by the affectionate tone of Julia's voice.

"Did you get all that?" she asked. "I swear she takes after you. I used to think you were the only person I knew who could recite an entire soliloquy without stopping to catch a breath. So I guess she gets it honestly."

"Yeah," he admitted, touched by the ease with which she seemed to accept his unique relationship to the child of his loins. "But never mind that. Who - exactly - is Jeff?"

Julia could not quite suppress a sigh. "Oh, dear. You caught that, did you? I was rather hoping that it might get lost in the verbal deluge."

"Not a chance," he retorted. "The devil is always in the details, which is what we . . ." He stumbled into silence, realizing what he'd almost said, and understanding - again - that his glib tongue was sometimes his own worst enemy. "Anyway, you're dodging the question. Who's Jeff?"

"All right, all right," she replied. "I'll tell you, but you have to promise not to go all big-brother-protective on me. I haven't even told my father yet - for the same reason."

"Is that a discreet way of telling me it's none of my business?"

"No, Kevin," she said, very gently. "Because of Lizzie, it will always be your business.

"His name is Jeff Aldridge, and his son is in my kindergarten class. He's a widower, and his little boy has some learning difficulties. That's how we got to know each other, and he's . . . he's . . ."

Kevin smiled. "Let me guess," he said softly. "He's not like Tommy."

She laughed. "No. He's not. But - in some ways - he _is_ like you. Except . . ."

It was Kevin's turn to laugh. "He likes girls. He really, _really_ likes girls."

"Yeah," she admitted. Then she sighed. "Tell me something, Little Brother. How is it that you can always - or almost always - read my mind, and understand what I'm thinking?"

"I don't know. Maybe it has something to do with the genetic mixture that created Lizzie."

"Maybe. But I think I should tell you that there have been times when I wished with all my heart that you weren't gay. We'd have made a hell of a team."

He laughed again. "Feels just a tiny bit incestuous to me. So let's just say we're well matched, everywhere except the bedroom. Now, tell me more about the new man in your life."

"Well, he's a doctor - an anesthesiologist - and a very successful one. On staff at Seattle Children's Hospital and very much in demand because he's . . . oh, Kevin, you should see him with Lizzie and Robbie - that's his little boy. He is so good with kids. He's just . . ."

"Perfect?" Kevin clearly heard what she did not quite say. "So perfect, in fact, that he's scared the crap out of you, hasn't he?"

"Does it show that much?"

"Only to someone who knows where to look. But listen, Jules. You're gun-shy because of what you went through with Tommy, but if you let that ruin your chance to build a new life, then you're letting the old 'Walker curse' destroy your hope for the future. So just stop that. Tommy is an idiot; if you don't believe me, ask Justin. He'll tell you the truth. But don't ask Kitty or Sarah - or Mom - because they won't admit it, even though they know it."

"You approve then?"

"Not my place to approve, is it? But . . ."

"Wrong," she said quickly. "Your role in our daughter's life entitles you to a right to speak up, doesn't it?"

"OK, maybe," he admitted. "But here's the thing. If he makes you happy and he makes her happy, that's all that matters. Of course, the fact that he's a doctor and a specialist and probably makes gobs of money doesn't hurt either."

She chuckled. "Not a part of my criteria for judgment, but it can't hurt."

She paused then, and he felt the shift in the direction of the conversation - and braced himself.

"How are you, Kevin?" she asked finally, the level of her concern so obvious that it was painful for him to address it.

"One day at a time," he answered, pausing to refill a round of beer mugs for the small, raucous group seated at the bar and arguing about the 49'ers chances for the season. It was a relief to note that they were paying Kevin no attention at all. "It's not ideal, but it seems to work."

"Um, hm." She paused again, and he realized then that she was debating about what she should - or should not - say next.

"What's up, Jules?" he asked quickly. "I know there's something. You're never hesitant, unless you're debating whether to speak or keep your mouth shut. So just go ahead and say it."

"I just . . . I just don't know how much you want to know about what's happening, with Scotty."

"Sometimes I don't know either. But . . . is something wrong? Is he all right? He's not sick, is he, or . . ."

"No, no. He's fine, Kevin. Except . . . well . . ."

"Please just spit it out. You're killing me here."

She huffed a sigh. "It seems that Michelle is back in town, although no one seems to know why exactly, or whether it's permanent. She drops in to see Scotty sometimes, and he doesn't seem to be handling it too well. And . . . his mother is there, too. I don't know how long she's staying or what her plans are. Tommy doesn't seem to be too concerned, although he did say that Saul is complaining that she's driving Scotty nuts and interfering with things at the café."

Kevin took a moment to swallow around the knot in his throat as he fought to avoid speculating about what Michelle would be like now, and how painful it would be to see her, not to mention how much Bertha must have celebrated the news of his departure from her son's life. He was silent for a while, struggling to come up with an answer. In the end, he chose to ignore all the details and address his primary concern. "But he's okay, right? In the long run, that's all that matters."

She sighed again. "No, he's not okay, Kevin. He's miserable. Even Tommy - who has the sensitivity of a slug - has noticed that. He's far from 'okay'. He's just . . . lost."

It was Kevin's turn to sigh, as he looked around for a way to end the conversation. Luckily, a lively group of new arrivals was heading for the bar, looking thirsty and eager.

"Gotta go, Jules," he said quickly.

"But what about . . ."

He didn't wait to hear the rest. "He'll get over it."

And he rang off, before she could say anything more.

Everything that needed saying, after all, had already been said, and he had nothing else to offer.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

It had been a long day, and would grow longer still. Hours and hours and hours endured since an early morning start, and a domino-effect series of events that tested his patience and his stamina more extremely with every passing moment. And - unfortunately - it was not over yet. Still, he had needed a break - some private time, something that had been at a premium lately and that he was unlikely to find now, no matter how badly he might need it.

Scotty stood for a moment in the tiny vestibule outside his apartment - reflecting briefly over how strange it still felt to refer to it as 'his' rather than 'our' - and leaned against the door frame, running his fingers through his hair, and brooding over the fact that all days seemed long lately.

But not, somehow, as long as the nights - the nights that tested his resolve and his courage and his ability to endure the silence.

And now - oh, God! - now he had been forced to confront a new epiphany, one that he would have given almost anything to avoid. Now he knew that solitude - the echoing, bottomless sound of silence - was not the worst thing to endure. The worst thing was to have to deal with the loneliness, the guilt, the growing sense of despair, while biting his tongue to keep from threatening to kill his mother if she made one more nasty, vindictive comment about the husband he'd lost.

He knew what she was trying to do; understood that her attitude and her actions were simply clumsy attempts to help him find absolution for the sins he 'imagined' he'd committed - her word, not his - and discover a new focus in his life, to enable him to release his grip on the past and find a future to pursue. But he also knew what else she was hoping to accomplish - the part of that new future that she dared not actually mention, but wished for with all her heart nonetheless.

She had hated Kevin; no secrets about that. But that passion had existed on the surface of the troubled sea of her emotions. Beneath that surface, the deeper levels of her complex consciousness grew ever darker. She had managed, somehow, to cling to a measure of love for her son - or, at least, her version of her son - but she had hated what he was. Even more than she'd hated Kevin, she'd hated the homosexuality of her only child, and she'd grasped at the chance to blame someone else for his 'affliction'. Somehow, in her mind, she had succeeding in finding Kevin responsible for Scotty's gayness, even though Scotty had been gay for as long as he could remember, many, many years before his first encounter with Kevin Walker.

But Scotty knew that logic seldom entered into conclusions reached in moments of emotional desperation, so Bertha believed the lie she'd told herself, the one that was so much more palatable than the ugly reality.

But her self- deception didn't stop there. At this point, she had convinced herself that this was the big moment - the chance to put everything right. She had lost her husband (to that blond hussy). She had lost her standing in the community, and become the object of ugly gossip and mean-spirited ridicule among the pillars of her ultra-right-wing church, and - worst of all - she had lost her son to the vilest of sins. But now - now she believed that she had found a way to salvage him, to set him on the path to redemption and regain at least one of the things life had taken from her.

All it would take - she was certain - was the right girl. And she knew the perfect candidate, although it would mean a substantial adjustment in her own way of thinking.

During Scotty's high school years, she had never been fond of his friend, Michelle. She had, in fact, been deeply critical, finding the girl tacky and cheap and disrespectful and far too wild and promiscuous. But that was then. Now - now it seemed that none of those flaws really mattered much any more, because Michelle had one huge asset, one advantage that trumped everything else.

She was female, which meant that she could kill two very important birds with one perfectly-aimed stone; she could cure Scotty's horrible "affliction", thus saving him from eternal damnation, and she could produce a grandchild.

For her ability to fulfill those two functions, Bertha was willing to forgive her anything.

Unfortunately - for Bertha - Scotty was completely aware of what she was feeling and what she was trying to do, and he was rapidly running out of patience. He had tried every means he could think of to force his mother to understand that his sexuality was not a choice, not a sickness, not a curable disease, but she still refused to accept that it was a part of who he was, and that there was nothing to be done to change that. 

His mother's attitude, while bizarre and infuriating, had not really surprised him. But Michelle - Michelle was something else entirely. He was currently totally confused by her reactions to his mother's unsubtle ploys to bring the two of them together. Michelle had always known he was gay, and had never cared. Their friendship had never hinged on conventional sexuality, and he was pretty sure it still didn't. And yet, there was something . . . odd going on.

It had been Michelle who had called him earlier in the day to let him know that his mom had called and invited her for a casual brunch the following morning.

A brunch! That by itself was enough to set off alarm bells in his basic brain functions. Bertha Wandell had never prepared nor attended a 'brunch' in her entire life. He could, in fact, remember some long ago comments about the pretentiousness of the society wives who were members of Phoenix's Union Hills Country Club and talked incessantly about their "silly little brunches".

He could - and often did - prepare brunches for special occasions for some of the café's regular patrons, including some of Nora's charitable events, but could not imagine Bertha having any interest in participating.

And why was Michelle allowing herself to be used as part of Bertha's plotting? It simply did not make sense. Nor, for that matter, had Michelle's behavior over the last couple of months been in character for her. She had always dreamed of a career in New York, her heart set on becoming the next Vera Wang, but she seemed to spend an awful lot of time in LA lately, on regular visits with her mother. And therein lay another clue that raised speculation to a new level. For as long as Scotty could remember, Michelle and her mother had been at odds, wavering between weeks of mutually-indulged silent treatment and periodic shouting matches, often accompanied by glassware hurled against walls as one of them stormed out of the house, announcing a serious intent to never speak to the other again.

And yet now - by his personal knowledge, Michelle had made four trips to LA in the last three months, each lasting a week or more, spending a lot of time with her mother in her new house which was "out in the valley"; no real address ever provided. In addition, each visit was explained by vague references to meetings with potential clients and possible investors in a new store her boss was thinking about opening on Rodeo Drive. But when pressed, she had avoided providing even the most rudimentary specifics, even when Scotty had made some speculative remark about a possible investment in her newest venture.

She had mumbled something about never mixing business with friendship - which was, of course, a complete crock - and beat a hasty retreat. It had been three weeks before she'd dropped in again, and the subject had never come up. Not even when Scotty made some small attempt to broach it.

So he finally got the message, and accepted that she did not want him involved in her business, but that did not prevent him from wondering why.

He took a deep breath and decided that he was too tired to care - almost.

A quick glance at his watch revealed that he should have an hour or so to relax a bit, take a shower, and prepare for the gala affair of the evening. Another charity event, with eighty guests - including a number of A-List celebrities - raising money for a scholarship fund for medical students from inner-city schools.

This was the kind of project that Nora Walker often championed, although this particular benefit was not one of hers. Still, she would certainly approve his efforts - a fact that shouldn't really matter to him any more. Not since his own actions and his resentment of their interference in the trauma that had destroyed his marriage had created a gulf between him and Kevin's family. Except for Saul, of course, who was his business partner and who had - finally - realized that his continued carping and determination to convict Kevin for the failure of the marriage was not patching up the disagreement with Scotty; was, in fact, doing exactly the opposite.

So now, it was a subject that they did not discuss. One of many.

He had already done all the preliminary prep work for the buffet that would be presented to the guests. The tables were already set with vintage china and crystal, freshly laundered linens, and discreet floral arrangements. The wine was selected and waiting in the cooler, the entrees assembled and ready to go into the oven, the salads chilled and ready to be dressed, the side dishes completed and awaiting transfer to chafing dishes, and the desserts prepared and needing only sauce and garnish to be ready to serve.

So now . . .

He took a deep breath and opened the door, to find his mother seated on the loveseat, chatting away on her cell phone and smiling, obviously enjoying herself. A brief pause to listen told him that she was in the middle of a rave about the acclaim he'd received for his skills as a chef.

He confined his greeting to a quick wave of his hand before disappearing into his bedroom, not really interested in eavesdropping on Bertha's side of the conversation or learning the identity of the person on the other end of the line. But if he thought his speedy retreat would get him out of the uncomfortable mother-son conversation that had been a daily routine lately, he was sadly mistaken.

He had barely discarded his stained chef's jacket when the knock sounded at his door.

He managed - but only just - not to sigh as he called out a weary, "Come in."

Bertha, despite being deliberately obtuse about many things, retained enough of her natural maternal instincts to be attuned to his physical and emotional condition.

"You look worn out," she observed, as she bent to retrieve the jacket from where he'd dropped it. Since the day of her arrival, he had been telling her that she was not expected to do his laundry, but she had continued to ignore his admonition and do it anyway.

"Mom, please just leave the jacket. I have someone to do that for me, and . . ."

"And while I'm here, you don't have to pay for laundry service. Don't be ridiculous."

He sighed, tired of the argument.

"Can I get you some coffee?" she asked. "Or tea? Tea might be better - more soothing."

"Mom, I don't need soothing," he retorted, his impatience putting an edge to his words that he could not quite suppress. "I just need to rest for a while, before I shower and change for the evening."

"You work too hard," she replied, unperturbed by the sharpness of his tone. "You shouldn't have been left alone to deal with all this . . ."

"I am not alone," he snapped. "And I wish you'd stop with all this thinly-veiled innuendo. If you have something to say, better to just say it. Then you can feel free to go back to Phoenix and live your own life, leaving me to live mine."

"Now, Scotty, you know you don't mean that. You're just . . . "

"Just what, Ma? Just too stupid and immature to handle my own life? Just too needy to figure out what I want? Or just too much a faggot to be trusted to make my own decisions?"

Bertha refused to be perturbed. "Please don't use that word."

"Why? Because it's an ugly, filthy, horrible word - which it is - or because it makes you think about the things I might do when you're not looking over my shoulder?"

She shuddered. "Please, Scotty. I don't want to think about that. And it's better if you . . ."

He huffed a deep breath. "What? If I don't think about it either? Is that really what you think - that if I don't let myself think about it, I won't want to do it anymore. If I refuse to remember how perfect it was when he made love to me, that I'll be magically cured? Is that really what you think?"

She could not quite bring herself to answer him.

"Jesus Christ!" he muttered. "Just . . . just do us both a favor and leave me alone. I need to rest for a while."

She nodded and moved toward the door as Scotty sprawled back on his bed. His bed - not their bed. He closed his eyes against a wave of fresh pain as his mother paused at the doorway. "But don't forget," she said softly, firmly, "your friend is coming for brunch tomorrow. It'll be nice to see her again, won't it?"

She waited a bit for a response, but he remained stubbornly silent, sighing with relief when she finally gave up and closed the door.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Saul was busy with the last minute preparation of the remoulade sauce for the crab cake and shrimp puff appetizers, leaving Scotty free to check the serving tables and determine that everything was perfectly arranged, and to review the guest list to make sure nothing had been overlooked.

The buffet was beautifully set up - pleasing to the eye and tempting to the palate. The grilled asparagus and melon salad made a vivid display against the forest green damask of the tablecloth. Large chafing dishes held savory roasted fingerling potatoes and fragrant carrot soufflé, and ornate silver platters, lined with greenery, awaited the beef Wellington which was just coming out of the oven, golden and perfect. Close at hand, silver gravy boats would hold the accompanying sautéed wild mushroom sauce.

A separate table, covered with antique lace, held a tiered tray with assorted petit fours, and a huge crystal bowl of praline charlotte russe, along with a silver pitcher of butterscotch sauce, and, on a sidebar in the kitchen, linen-lined baskets were waiting to hold an assortment of fresh-baked breads, which would be served at individual tables.

Everything was perfect.

Scotty smiled and gave a quick thumbs-up to his helpers, eliciting pleased smiles. Praise from their boss was always much appreciated, but had been in somewhat short supply of late. They all understood that it had not been that he did not appreciate their efforts; he had simply been too distracted to pay much attention.

He sat down at the reception desk and turned his attention to the guest list.

The Worthys were at the top of the list, of course, since Alicia Worthy was chairperson of this particular fundraising committee, and Scotty made a mental note to prepare a tiny take-away box of his signature red velvet cake for her son, Allan. A beautiful autistic 12-year-old, Allan had once declared that eating Scotty's special cake was better than buttered popcorn at the centroplex - a rare compliment indeed from a child who rarely spoke at all and loved his weekly trip to the movies better than anything else in his life.

The Plimptons would be attending, of course; they rarely missed any charity event that the café sponsored. And the Drapers, the Guidrys, the Seguras, and the Maxwells - regulars all.

Then he looked down to take note of the celebrities involved: Cass Tremont, the hostess of a local morning television show; Tanya Palmiere, a pianist and former Miss California; Roddy McClure, a sculptor recently contracted as part of a new four-artist exhibit at the Museum of Contemporary Art; Pete Beringer, a young comedian just concluding a sensational stint at the Laugh Factory comedy club; and . . . Chad Barry.

_Shit!_

Scotty dropped the list and rested his forehead on clinched fists.

He didn't want to see Chad, although a small voice barely audible in the back of his mind insisted that maybe - this time - maybe he would succeed in convincing the actor to give him the low-down, to tell him why he had called for Kevin all those months ago. He knew it probably didn't matter; knew it would probably not be important - certainly not important enough to give him some way to save his marriage - but still the nagging suspicion persisted.

It was illogical; more than that, it was stupid. What could Chad Barry possibly know that would reanimate a relationship that was fundamentally dead?

Kevin was gone; Kevin had disappeared into the ether, and all indications were that Kevin was never coming back. Since his exit from their lives, Nora Walker had established a small ritual, which never varied. Once a month, she called Scotty; once a month, she asked how he was, observed that she hoped he was all right, invited him to visit her any time he liked, and then asked the one true question: "Have you heard from Kevin?"

And every month the answer remained the same - the same as hers when he turned the question around and asked her.

And both of them - at that moment - would invariably share the same thought: Maybe - just maybe - there might have been some hope for Kevin's return if he had kept in contact with anybody, even if the contact was something as simple as an occasional text to announce that he was alive. But with nothing at all on which to build hope, both of them would come that much closer to accepting what the rest of the family had finally come to believe.

Kevin was never coming home.

They had all insisted that it was just not possible - that Kevin was just throwing another one of his royal snits and would find out soon enough that he couldn't live without their help and support.

Now, they all seemed perpetually amazed that he had proven them wrong.

Scotty poured himself a quick shot of whisky and downed it.

And now, he had to face Chad Barry again. It wouldn't be the first time they'd come face to face since that strange, enigmatic phone call, and Scotty did not look forward to another confrontation, because . . . well, he couldn't really explain the reason for his reluctance. Except to acknowledge that - on those other occasions - he had seen something in Chad's eyes, something cold and almost brutal which suggested that the actor knew more than he was saying, and that what he knew had served to confirm the low opinion he'd always had of the man he blamed for stealing Kevin away from him.

The fact that Scotty had not, in fact, stolen Kevin - that Chad had actually pushed Kevin away in a desperate attempt to hang on to his reputation as a heterosexual playboy - didn't seem to make any difference in his feelings about Scotty.

All of which did nothing to address the question. What on earth could Chad Barry know that Scotty didn't, and how had he learned it? And, most important of all, what difference would it make - if any?

Maybe - Scotty sighed, knowing that it was a very thin maybe - tonight would see that question answered.

A small bustle at the front door announced the arrival of the first guests, fashionably late - LA style - and Scotty stood quickly to straighten his jacket and welcome the new arrivals, a small courtesy which had become something of a ritual for these catered charitable affairs.

The contributors enjoyed a chance to chat with the celebrity chef; a lot of them - both male and female - also enjoyed a chance to look their fill and enjoy the view.

Scotty was still beautiful - would probably always be beautiful - but the very discerning among his audience sometimes saw something in his lovely eyes - something just a shade too dark or a bit too sharp - and wondered what tragedy he might be hiding.

Strangely, those persons found at that moment that they no longer took much pleasure in the looking.

But Scotty was careful to keep smiling. It was all a part of the job.

Coming in immediately after the first arrivals, a gorgeous young man in a beautifully-cut Armani tuxedo stepped into view and favored the chef with a smile warm enough to melt frozen butter, huge, aquamarine eyes - the color of a tropic sea - providing a startling contrast with dark auburn hair and flawless golden skin, and Scotty felt something strange flutter in his belly. 

What on earth . . . Then it dawned on him. Kevin had been gone six months, and during that time, he had never felt the tiniest nuance of sexual interest in anyone. Not even enough to inspire him to reach for the lube to indulge himself in a thorough hand job.

Not once. Now the sensation was so bizarre that he barely recognized the stirring for what it was, which turned out to be a good thing because - on the heels of the Armani-clad vision - Chad Berry strolled through the door and fixed Scotty with a look sour enough to curdle fresh cream.

Oh, yes; it was definitely going to be a long night.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Alicia Worthy, all aflutter in gossamer lavender silk - Marchesa, by the look of it - was as fresh-faced and lovely as a debutante, courtesy of the skills of Beverly Hills' finest plastic surgeon, no doubt. And she displayed a personality that exhibited traits of frivolity and easy humor. In truth, beneath the froth, she was a sharp, well-educated, cunning business woman, who was almost as good at fundraising as in generating and monitoring corporate mergers - the profession which earned her a hefty, six-figure salary every year.

The fundraiser had been a rousing success, producing almost $60,000.00 in profits, and she was delighted with Scotty and his staff, tipping everyone generously, even though they all assured her that her generosity was unnecessary. Scotty and Saul, of course, refused to accept any gratuity, both aware that the woman's patronage - and that of her friends, clients, and associates - would be enormously profitable for them in the future. Though somewhat costly initially, these charity affairs always proved to be an excellent investment, guaranteed to generate enormous future revenues.

The crowd was thinning now, all replete and content and feeling good about themselves and their generosity. 

The guest celebrities had performed well, their approval spurring the contributors to open their wallets just a bit wider and pledge just a bit more. And Chad Berry had been the star of the evening, charming and warm and approachable to everyone.

Almost.

Since the affair stretched on for several hours, it would have been logical to expect him to take advantage of his first opportunity to escape from the crowd, tucking his incredibly beautiful young boyfriend under his arm and racing out to the Lamborghini parked in the reserved spot near the front door. 

But he didn't, and - somehow - Scotty was not surprised. Somehow, he had expected the actor to linger.

When the Worthys made their departure - a stack of go-boxes in hand - the staff breathed a sigh of relief and bade Scotty and Saul good night, while Chad and his lovely young morsel - whose name was Donovan, as it happened - sat in an intimate booth near the back and proceeded to enjoy a premium bottle of Veuve Clicquot champagne.

At that point, Saul offered to stay, and allow Scotty to call it a day. But Scotty had been aware throughout the evening of Barry's eyes, often following him, occasionally projecting a speculative gleam.

It was time, he decided, to put an end to . . . whatever it was that the actor was withholding.

"Scotty," Saul said very softly, "I don't think it's a good idea for you to . . ."

"Saul, just stop. I'm not a child, and I'm not afraid of Chad Berry. I think it's time we cleared the air, so just go. I'll finish up here."

Saul frowned, obviously still having misgivings, but finally did as he was asked. When he was gone, Scotty approached the table, where Chad had loosened his tie before pouring out another serving of champagne and pushing it toward Scotty, gesturing for him to take a seat.

Unwilling to slide into the small booth, Scotty pulled a chair from a nearby table and sat, accepting the stemmed glass and taking a sip.

"How've you been, Scotty?" The actor's eyes were very dark now, filled with some emotion that Scotty could not quite identify.

"What's the phrase?" he replied. "As well as can be expected?"

Chad nodded. "So you still haven't heard from him."

"No. Have you?"

"Me?" The actor's laugh was stage-perfect - and patently fake. "Why would he call me?"

Scotty shrugged. "Maybe he wouldn't. But maybe - I don't know - maybe somebody else would. Somebody who knew that you two were connected."

"But we're not connected, are we?" Chad reached out to caress his young lover's cheek - a gesture of consolation. "Not any more. Certainly not like the two of you . . . were."

"We were married," Scotty said sharply. "Or, at least, as married as the state of California allowed us to be. And, as far as I'm concerned, we still are."

Chad sat back and regarded the chef with a strange smile. "But there are other ties, aren't there? Ties that might be more important - more meaningful?"

Scotty swallowed hard, feeling outrage flare within him. "What the fuck are you talking about? What could possibly be more important in my life than Kevin?'

"Maybe you should ask yourself that question," Chad retorted. "What - exactly - would be enough to convince you that he didn't matter any more, that you had more important things to worry about?"

Scotty stood up. "What are you doing, Barry? Is this just some kind of cheap trick to make me feel worse - to make me miss him more, or regret that I wasn't good enough to hold on to him? What are you . . ."

"Save the act," snarled the actor, getting to his feet and pulling his semi-inebriated companion with him. "You may have everybody else fooled; you probably even managed to fool Kevin, because Kevin - in love - can be the biggest fool of all. But you haven't fooled me, Pretty Boy. I know all about your little arrangement, and - just in case you think I'm bluffing - why don't you ask your little sweetheart about the last time she ran into me. The look on her face was priceless. She was desperate to come up with an explanation, but nothing she said could change what I saw in that first moment. She actually turned around and ran, right off the plane. But it was too late. The damage was done."

Scotty shook his head. "I have no idea what you're talking about. If you want to accuse me of something, you need to speak . . ."

But the actor was on his way to the door now, his smile deliberately venal, bordering on vindictive. "I've got better things to do with my time. I start shooting on a new film next week, up near Yosemite Falls, so I'll be out of touch for a while. But when I come back, maybe you'll have something to show me. It's funny, you know. All that time, you were so scornful of anybody who stayed hidden in the closet. And now . . . " He paused, and the glint in his eyes were suddenly vicious. "Now, what are you hiding, Little Man?"

With a final wave that felt a bit like a dismissive gesture from royalty, they were gone, and the restaurant was plunged into silence, but it was not the serene, comforting silence of a job well done; it was heavier and filled with a strange foreboding.

Scotty's eyes were huge as he stared into nothing, his mind racing and tumbling and trying to make sense of what he'd been told.

But there were no answers, although . . . 

Something - something he could not explain or anticipate or identify - was stirring in the darkness around him. Something that might change his life - forever.

He did not know how he knew it. He only knew that it was real and it was there, and, in the end, there would be no way to avoid it.

November in LA had never felt so cold.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

* Gideon V Wainwright - a 1963 landmark case in US Supreme Court history, unanimously ruling that state courts are required under the Sixth Amendment of the United States Constitution to provide counsel in criminal cases for defendants who are unable to afford their own attorneys. 

** Felix Frankfurter

TBC


	9. Keeping Vows

Chapter 9: Keeping Vows

_To-day I shall be strong,_   
_No more shall yield to wrong,_   
_Shall squander life no more;_   
_Days lost, I know not how,_   
_I shall retrieve them now;_   
_Now I shall keep the vow_   
_I never kept before._

\-- _May_ \-- A. E. Housman

He had never intended to allow it to become a habit, had, in fact, meant to limit it to one occasion - one fleeting indulgence, one nod toward forbidden memories, one exercise in nostalgia. A singular event comprised of a harmless little match, occurring in the loveliness of the country club setting, with its precision-sculpted landscaping, executed with such exact perfection that even eruptions of bougainvillea existed within fixed boundaries, everything balanced and coordinated with its California-perfect golf course, all arranged in stunning symmetry around the hacienda-style sprawl of the clubhouse, neighboring spa, and discreet array of private cottages provided for patrons and honored guests.

That had been his intention, but it had not quite worked out as planned.

It might have gone as expected if - and it was a huge 'if' - he'd remembered how much he had always enjoyed the exhilaration of a fast, hard match and the glorious rush of victory when his serve turned out to be a dynamic, overwhelming ace, or his return proved to be so perfectly timed and placed that his opponent had no opportunity to field it successfully. He knew he should have remembered, and taken appropriate measures to avoid resurrecting old habits and preferences. Then he had to suppress a quick smile, knowing that the only strategy that would have worked would have been to resist temptation in the first place.

He never should have picked up the racquet at all - should, in fact, have discarded it long ago. After all, what kind of ex-salesman/semi-drifter ran around with a Bosworth Tour 96 tennis racquet tucked away in the trunk of his car.

The car, of course, was gone now, and he knew he should have let the racquet go with it. It was singularly stupid to have held on to this one sentimental token of his old life, but he had done it anyway, not quite able to consign it to the past. Ridiculous, really, he thought now. It was just a tennis racquet, but . . . it was _his_ tennis racquet, something that he'd treasured, something given to him by someone he'd cared for deeply.

Someone who was _not_ Scotty, and maybe, he thought, that made it even more special. He didn't after all, have a lot of good memories that did not center around his husband.

Best not to pursue that thought, and besides, it was all academic now. Whatever he should have done, he hadn't, and all that was left was to deal with the aftermath. In allowing himself to forget how much he'd loved the game, he had managed to convince himself that a major part of its appeal was due to its connection with his sister, but that, as it turned out, had not been quite so major after all.

There was also the fact that it had been a long time since he'd had something so sweetly uncomplicated to claim his focus, although he knew that wasn't exactly true. Nothing in his life seemed to be truly uncomplicated these days. He'd had no idea how hard it would be to step out of one identity and into another, leaving all his old baggage behind him.

The other part of the problem lay in the fact that he'd failed to take into account how beautiful Brian Padgett would be in a crisp, new set of whites - and how much the man would have resented being called 'beautiful' had he known about it.

Still . . . Kevin had to admit to a certain amount of confusion in his attitude toward his tennis opponent. For as long as he could remember, he'd known that his so-called 'gay-dar' was almost infallible. He had always known, even when he wasn't sure how he knew. Now . . . now he didn't know, and couldn't figure out how to go about finding out - or whether or not he was even interested.

Which was perfectly ridiculous, of course. He wasn't interested; that was the bottom line, because this was not Scotty. Even the name in his mind still raised a stunning degree of pain, and he was beginning to believe it always would. Only . . . 

"Hey!" That was Padgett, laughing as his serve left a smudge on the clay court and went zooming off into the shrubbery. "You playing, or daydreaming?"

"Sorry," Kevin replied with a smile. "Little of both, I guess."

"Yeah, well, keep it up, Federer-wannabe, and I'm going to kick your ass."

Kevin's smile became a predator's grin. "Only if you're planning to talk me to death. Serve it up, Dr. Jones."

Padgett grimaced, pretending to be annoyed by the nickname with which Kevin had christened him, although he could hardly claim that it wasn't appropriate, given his field of study and the fact that he even bore a slight resemblance to Harrison Ford. Which was not, of course, a bad thing. Kevin, an original Star Wars fan at the grand old age of ten, still remembered a favorite scene from the original movie in which a quick, but powerful camera shot had seemed to ignite the color of Han Solo's eyes, earning him a permanent place in Kevin's pantheon of favorite characters, which was later enhanced by the actor's visit to Café 429 and his lavish appreciation for Scotty's spectacular version of steak au poivre, not to mention his immediate, easy acceptance when Kevin was introduced as Scotty's husband. The man had not even blinked before offering a strong, steady handshake

A vivid, beautiful memory. Kevin suppressed a sigh; such memories were problematic at best, and downright dangerous at worst - best discarded in the bright light of a morning like this one.

The match was hard fought, as were all their matches, and the decisive victory in the last set was finally gained by virtue of a single heavy top-spin forehand that Kevin managed to drive into the rear corner of the court with enough force and speed to make any return impossible.

Padgett at that point simply braced his hands against his knees and shook his head. "Bet you can't do that again," he called, moderately out of breath.

Kevin laughed, equally winded. "Bet I can't either."

"You're really good at this, you know," said the not-quite-professor, moving toward the net with hand extended. "They might even take you on as a pro, if you were interested. I heard the last one took off for the greater glory of the silver screen a while back."

"Yeah? He was an actor?" Kevin grasped the outstretched hand firmly.

Padgett grinned. "He was a pretty face, but hey - sometimes that's enough."

Kevin's smile faltered slightly as a familiar image flared in his mind, a remnant of his previous life that he had not thought about in a very long time, mostly because he hadn't allowed himself to delve deeply into anything that wasn't central to his current life. He had dealt with his own up-close-and-personal version of an actor who had started out as nothing more than a pretty face, although to everyone's surprise - maybe even his own - Chad Barry had turned out to have a considerable degree of talent and ability. 

Chad! Of the laughing eyes and the sculpted cheekbones and the abs to die for, and the body . . .

And that was quite enough of that. There was only room in his thoughts for one face - one body - perfect, beautiful, unforgettable, featured in memories which filled him with an ache so profound that he sometimes wondered why no one else could see it. He could not - would not - allow himself to grieve for another.

"Speaking of actors - and pretty faces - I hear they're shooting a sci-fi film over at Mono Lake," said Padgett, moving to the sideline to grab a towel to dry his face. "Makes sense if they're using all those weird salt formations as features of an alien world. Some of my students are getting part-time work as extras. Might be fun to take a run over there and see what's happening. You interested?"

Kevin's smile was bittersweet as he recalled other occasions when he'd visited television film sets - always minding his p's and q's to make sure nobody tumbled to the truth of his relationship to the mega-macho star of whatever scene they were filming. He was slightly surprised to note that he still felt a trace of resentment over the fact that the actor's eventual outing had only served to enhance his standing in the film industry, demonstrating that all the discretion and deliberate slight-of-hand had been completely unnecessary.

Another bitter lesson learned too late.

Still, discretion remained the better part of valor.

"No, thanks," he said, grabbing his own towel to dry his hair, which always tended to curl more tightly when damp. "I've got an appointment in the city this afternoon."

Padgett's eyebrows lifted. "Really? Something important?"

Kevin hesitated, slightly perturbed by the intensity of the interest flaring in hazel eyes that were sometimes brown and sometimes gray and sometimes green and sometimes indeterminate.

"Not really. Just some paperwork over a piece of property that my grandparents owned a long time ago. Red tape stuff actually, but I've put it off long enough."

Padgett looked vaguely uncertain for a moment; then he smiled and nodded. "Another time then."

Kevin laughed. "Not much into checking out how movies are made. I prefer to maintain my illusions."

Again, that quick flare of speculation. "That can be dangerous, you know."

Kevin chose not to answer, although he had to deliberately suppress an urge to agree vehemently.

Padgett looked thoughtful, a slight frown touching his lips, but elected to drop the subject.

"Got time for a drink?" he asked instead.

Kevin glanced at his watch. "It's not even noon yet."

Padgett shrugged. "It's five o'clock somewhere. Come on. One glass of pinot to celebrate your victory. Okay?"

Kevin decided not to argue. Besides, he enjoyed Padgett's company, even though he had chosen not to examine his motives too closely. There was no romantic aspect to their casual relationship; he would not - could not - allow that, not even in a fleeting, ships-in-the-night manner. But they did share some small nuance of camaraderie - something that he probably should not indulge, but seemed unable to resist anyway.

He had tried to become the proverbial island that no man is, but had never quite managed to achieve the level of isolation he sought, the place where he would be permanently, perfectly safe - and irrevocably lost.

The bar area of the club was quiet and stylish in the manner of a classy British pub, with lots of richly detailed wood veneers, plush leather seating, stained glass accents, and soft, indirect lighting. It was also almost empty as Padgett led the way to a small booth in the corner - Kevin's favorite spot for a quiet drink. As they took their seats, it occurred to Kevin that he should be slightly alarmed that his companion knew him well enough to assume that he would want to sit here. He had spent months learning to avoid familiarity at all costs; it bred the kind of sloppy, unguarded attitude that could result in dangerous slips of the tongue.

But this was not the moment to indulge his paranoia, he supposed.

The bartender, a college kid named Greg - slender, dark-eyed, and Gucci-model pretty - had claimed Kevin as a kindred spirit once he'd learned where he worked; he greeted the two new arrivals with a bright smile, glanced at his reflection in the mirrored bar to make sure every artfully tousled hair was where it should be, and proceeded without waiting for an order, pouring out two goblets of the house's best pinot. He then brought them forward and failed to notice the fleeting frown that touched Kevin's lips - the one that reluctantly acknowledged the realization that his reputation as a man of mystery was somehow deteriorating around him with every day that went by and every person who got to know him just a little better than he'd meant to allow.

Another example of his inability to isolate himself.

"Can I get you anything else, Gentlemen?" asked the bartender. "You're here on a good day. The chef is making a special effort for the lunch menu. Paella, I think, and tiramisu for dessert."

"What's the occasion?" asked Padgett.

The youth leaned forward - closer to Kevin - and lowered his voice. "Apparently, we have some celebrity staying in one of the guest cottages - someone who's determined to avoid attracting the attention of the paparazzi." He paused and waited for Kevin to look up and meet his eyes, but that didn't happen, so he drew a deep breath and continued, swallowing a mild surge of disappointment. "Anyway, it's an opportunity to enjoy something out of the ordinary, so would you . . ."

"Not for me," Kevin interrupted, offering a tiny smile to apologize for his lack of manners. "I have to be going."

"You sure?" Greg replied. "Everything's ready to serve, and . . ."

"Thanks, but no, thanks." This time, Kevin's tone of voice was firmer, and there was no smile to soften it as he drained his glass. 

The bartender managed - barely - not to flinch away from the coldness in that voice, but Kevin did not notice as he rose and hefted his carry-all to his shoulder, and made his departure with just a "See you guys later" tossed over his shoulder.

It was Padgett who noted that young Greg's beautiful dark eyes seemed to fill with a sharp, heavy swell of disappointment. It lasted less than the space of a heartbeat, but it was very real nonetheless. Still, Padgett said nothing, simply filing the moment away in a section of his mind that he had begun to categorize as "the mystery of Kevin Wynter".

Kevin, of course, would have been appalled to learn that he'd generated sufficient interest to merit such a label. It wasn't - quite - intense enough to be categorized as an obsession. Not yet anyway. But it was growing.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

It had rained in the early morning, and the incredible perfection of the club's manicured setting - emphasized by the natural, beautifully imperfect, autumn-hued landscape around it - was rendered even more idyllic by the arc of a rainbow rising into the western sky, and the celebrity - he smiled as he applied the term to himself - currently cloistered within the most luxurious of the guest cottages stood framed in pale light pouring through the French window and felt a bit like the king of the hill.

It was temporary, of course. He had never been a king - had not a drop of royal blood nor the tiniest trace of patrician lineage. No aristocratic claim to fame; no old bloodlines; not even a connection to wealth or industrial lineage.

He was just . . .

The thought died without him even noting its passing, as a quick movement near the clubhouse area drew his attention to a stray spark of sunlight glinting in dark hair, curled tight and thick - there and gone almost before he could notice it. But not quite quickly enough.

It couldn't be, could it? He knew that he had been lucky in his life - that getting to this place at this time was more a question of good fortune than any suggestion of having earned his place - but he had never been that lucky, so why should be believe it now.

But, if he simply stood here, telling himself that he had to be wrong, he would never get a chance to find out that he might be right after all. He was running for the door before the thought was complete.

Still, even at full speed - which was considerable given the length of his legs and gym-perfected strength of his muscles - he was not quite fast enough, as the powerful roar of a Harley engine fractured the pastoral serenity of the morning just as he arrived in the elegantly landscaped parking area, and the rider, helmet and jacket preventing any possibility of a revealing glimpse of face or body, raced out through the massive wrought iron gates and disappeared down the curving road, shaded by thick stands of California black oak.

Damn! He moved toward his car - a classic Porsche Cabriolet, black and hand-polished - only to remember that he had not paused to grab his keys when he'd raced out of his cottage. Damn!

Still, he told himself, walking slowly back toward his lodgings, it had only been a glimpse, too quick and fleeting to show him anything substantial. What were the odds, after all? He was almost certainly dead wrong, and ridiculously gullible to even entertain the notion that it might have been . . .

But what if that glimpse had been enough? There had certainly been a time when one brief sighting of that thick mass of curls would have sent him racing to intercept the man who wore it, and - if there were even the remotest possibility that his instincts were spot on - he couldn't just ignore it, could he? One thing was certain; in this place - deliberately remote and sheltered - whoever the individual had been, he wouldn't be just a nameless, unknown passerby.

Someone would know him.

He couldn't quite suppress a smile as he turned away from the private path that led to his cottage, and headed instead for the clubhouse. When his agent had told him about this place, lauding it as close enough to the set to be convenient while providing a perfect hideaway for a celebrity who needed some privacy, he had been skeptical at best. But, having tired of the endless pursuit by paparazzi determined to catch him in flagrante with his latest lover, he'd been desperate enough to give it a try. It would certainly be the height of irony if it should turn out to be the place where he could find something for which he'd been searching desperately.

Okay. Not something. Someone.

When he walked into the lounge area, the bartender favored him with a brilliant smile. Brilliant - and interested, unless he was mistaken.

"Good morning, Sir," said the slender youth, standing very tall and sculptured. "I hope your accommodations are satisfactory, and, if not, I'll . . . " A tremor in the voice betrayed the natural nervousness involved in addressing a celebrity. "Is there anything I can do for you?" Subtle but definite stress on the "anything".

Chad Barry smiled - the special, seductive smile that had won the hearts of millions of television and movie fans around the world - and decided to withhold the more obvious response for a less public moment. Instead he prepared to ask the question that had brought him into the lounge in the first place.

He allowed the smile to shift just slightly, assuming a nuance of intimacy, as he moved closer to the bar. "As a matter of fact, you'd earn my everlasting gratitude . . ." another pause, and even more nuance, "if you can tell me the name of the man who just walked out of here."

The charming blush that touched Greg Rowland's cheeks informed Barry that his gay-dar was functioning perfectly - as always - and it provided a focus for his attention, engaging his slightly predatory instincts while simultaneously preventing him from noticing the bright flicker of interest in the eyes of the other individual present in the bar. Brian Padgett sat back in his corner booth and continued to nurse his drink, somehow finding his own pensive thoughts more intriguing than the actions of the world-class celebrity exchanging flirtatious repartee with the impressionable young bartender.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

It was mid-afternoon by the time Kevin topped a fairly sharp ridgeline marking the border of Santa Clara county, pulling off the road into a narrow lay-by and doffing his helmet to enjoy an unimpeded view of the cluster of skyscrapers amid the urban sprawl that represented the population center of Silicone Valley. San Jose did not dazzle the eyes like its larger neighbor to the northwest; San Francisco - with a fascinating beauty as bright and distinctive as Paris, far across one ocean, or Hong Kong, far across another - would always draw the wanderer hungering for the unique Pacific Coast urban experience, but San Jose - by its very nature - was safer for one electing to linger in shadow or blend in with faceless masses. It was beautiful, in the classic sense of California beauty, but it was not as cosmopolitan and did not attract the kind of jet setters that might - just might - have recognized a transformed version of Kevin Walker. Given the notoriety of some of his family members and his own participation in Golden State politics, not to mention gay rights causes, it was not beyond possibility that he might be quickly identified in the city by the bay.

He could, of course, have chosen to hold this meeting in Modesto or Stockton or Manteca, sparing him half the distance of the trip, but his paranoia - even after all these months - remained as intense as ever. Kevin Walker might have taken chances at some points in his life; Kevin Wynter did not.

It was not that he did not trust Julia; in point of fact, he trusted her implicitly. But he saw no point in providing information that she did not need, which might put her in an awkward position should any of the ubiquitous Walker clan ever discover her connection to their prodigal son.

She could not be forced or manipulated into divulging what she did not know.

It was logical to assume that she'd figured out that he was dwelling somewhere in the north central reaches of California, but that was still a massive area - a huge haystack in which one little needle might stay comfortably lost. He could not allow himself to be more specific. He had even gone so far as to purchase and activate his new cellular phone with an 831 Monterey area code. It would prove nothing, of course, but it served as another red herring for anyone who might try to track him down.

He loved the child who was the daughter of both his heart and his body, and he had come to love her mother as well, as much a sister as those of his blood; maybe even a bit more than that. But that love did not blind him to the truth. Julia would not betray him, unless someone convinced her that such a betrayal would be for his own good. And he knew that his family - especially his mother - could be incredibly persuasive, especially when she believed that she was right; Nora Walker was a walking definition of protective motherhood.

He shook off that thought, not wanting to dwell on the hurt he had inflicted on the woman who had molded him into the man he now was. He knew that she was suffering; he knew that she did not deserve such treatment. But he also knew that she would get over it eventually, and be better off in the process.

More thoughts best avoided.

Though he had asked for this meeting, Julia had responded that he'd only barely beat her to it, since there was something they needed to discuss - face to face. Since that conversation, he'd attempted to quell a sense of uneasiness rising in his gut. His purpose here was simple and straightforward. He had drafted a new will, addressing all his interests in Walker family holdings and stock, and had it notarized by a clerk at the El Dorado county seat in Placerville. 

Appropriately, he thought, he had named Elizabeth as his sole heir, and he wanted to make sure that Julia had a copy of the document. 

On the other hand, he had no idea what Julia wanted or why he felt such a sense of disquiet.

Time to find out.

He quickly replaced his helmet, zipped up the Joe Rocker denim jacket he wore when it was too warm for leather, and resumed his journey, wondering if there would ever be a time when he could sit in quiet contemplation - of anything - without having to avoid thoughts of what had been and was no more. Somehow he doubted it.

He was mildly surprised and a bit relieved to find that Santana Row had not changed much in the years since he'd last visited there. Leaving his bike in a secure parking facility - and all his biking paraphernalia with it - he strolled down the palm-lined sidewalk, passing various emporia where he had occasionally shopped - Gucci, Tourneau, Urban Outfitters - and restaurants where he had dined with friends or family - Left Bank Brasserie, Blowfish, Pinkberry. A few things had gone missing, most notably the huge Borders that had once been a crown jewel of the setting, sacrificed on the techno-altars of Kindle and Nook. And there were new shops, of course, and new eateries, but all had been carefully constructed and decorated to fit perfectly into the ambiance of the complex - golden state classic, according to stylists and designers, or California kitsch, as Scottie had once dubbed it.

Damn!

He had dressed casually for the day, as he always did these days. He did not exactly mourn for his Armani suits and Ralph Lauren shirts and Ferragamo shoes, but he did occasionally miss them. Or, more accurately, he missed the man he had been when he'd worn them. But that was another waste of time and focus. Today, he wore 501's and a long-sleeved Polo shirt, blue on blue stripes deliberately chosen to accentuate the blue of his eyes. He allowed himself a tiny smile as that thought crossed his mind; in order to become a new man, he had been forced to abandon the extravagant styles and expensive tastes of a lifetime, but nothing would ever change the innate compulsion to capitalize on his assets.

He glanced at his watch as he rounded a corner and saw the Bistro Brienne ahead of him, charming and delightfully retro, brand new but artfully designed to look as if it had been in place for decades. 

He wasn't really late - not much, anyway - but one step inside the gently illuminated foyer was enough to inform him that he'd been eagerly awaited, as he was immediately assaulted by a squealing, jean-clad Elizabeth who had no patience for waiting to be noticed.

From her vantage point in a corner booth, Julia realized that - from a social etiquette standpoint - she should have scolded her daughter and demanded that she behave with decorum, but she was much too busy enjoying the sight of her beautiful little girl laughing and swarming into the arms of the man who was the truest father she would ever know.

It would only last for the briefest of moments, but - during that tiny fragment of time - it seemed that there were only the two of them standing together on the world's stage, and Julia elected to remain completely still - to allow them every instant they could steal from a reality that would never allow them more.

She wondered if she would ever find any two people more beautiful than these two, wrapped in each other's arms, blond ringlets bright against dark curls as Kevin stumbled slightly, obviously finding it impossible to maintain the defensive facade that ordinarily shielded him from unexpected emotional assaults. Elizabeth's eyes were bright with unalloyed joy; Kevin's were equally as bright, but there were layers of several different feelings there. His joy would forever be tempered with other emotions which were just as real and just as intense but would remain eternally unaddressed.

Obviously, there was no defense against the undiluted affections of a delightful baby girl, even though she was - technically - no longer a baby.

Realizing almost immediately that the two of them were the center of a lot of attention, Kevin braced Lizzie against his hip and carried her to the table where Julia waited. Julia - and one other.

Kevin almost managed to suppress a sigh as he maneuvered himself and the child who clung to him with arms like steel, into the booth, knowing that the reason for this 'emergency' meeting was sitting across from him, studying him with beautiful, thick-lashed gray eyes.

"Let me guess," he said, settling Elizabeth beside him and disentangling himself from her arms. "You're Jeff."

The man with the gray eyes and thick ash blond hair eyes smiled. "Guilty as charged."

Kevin reached across the table and lifted Julia's hand, pressing it to his lips. "Do I get to play protective big brother?" he asked, suppressing a grin.

"You most certainly do not," she laughed, correctly identifying the glint of mischief in Kevin's eyes.

"But . . ."

"Stop it!" she continued, a gentle smile touching her lips. "He doesn't know you and can't possibly understand that dry, sardonic, nasty Walker wit. I've known you for ten years, and I still don't get it, sometimes."

Kevin ignored her to focus on her companion. "Trust me. Dry and sardonic are certainly appropriate, but I've never been nasty in my life."

Jeff Aldridge threw back his head back and laughed aloud, as streaks of sunlight struck amber glints in his hair.

Kevin grinned. Given her history - especially her vulnerability to one extremely self-centered Walker brother - Julia might have been accused of having questionable taste in men, but it seemed that she might have made up for it this time around.

"Let's get our baby girl started on her newest favorite thing," she said, as a smart young waiter arrived to deliver Elizabeth's special treat from the menu: a luscious dish of creme brulee, piled high with blackberries, strawberries, and kiwi slices. 

In a matter of seconds, the little girl was totally focused on spooning the glazed custard into her mouth, ignoring everything else around her although she did not relinquish her grasp of Kevin's arm.

The envelope holding the will was quickly delivered into Julia's hands, and she stated her objections - exactly as expected - which Kevin ignored, also as expected.

That was the conclusion of the business portion of the meeting.

"I thought you two should meet now," said Julia softly, looking directly into Kevin's eyes. "Without delay. Since you're . . ." she paused and seemed to struggle to find the right words.

Jeff Aldridge came to her rescue. "Since we're going to be brothers," he said.

Kevin looked up and found himself the object of intense scrutiny by the couple sitting across from him. "Brothers?" he echoed. "What do you . . ."

"Oh, come on, Kevin," said Julia, not quite rolling her eyes with impatience, but close to it. "You're not that thick. This is just a contingency plan, but it's a good one. A simple one."

Kevin turned aside to enjoy the sight of his daughter with a blob of pudding on the tip of her nose and a fragment of caramel glaze at the corner of her lip. "So you two are . . ."

"Yes," said Jeff, his eyes gone soft with affection and joy. "I've asked Julia to marry me, and I promise you that I will make her - and Elizabeth - very happy - and compensate for what they've been through in the past. All those things that you couldn't protect them from. And I hope you'll give us your blessing. But Julia and I are also hoping that this can provide an easy solution to the problem which might occur should Lizzy ever make a remark about 'Unca Kev' in the wrong place at the wrong time. Provided you're willing, of course."

Kevin shifted his gaze to study Julia's expression. "Is this what you really want, Jules?"

Her smile was brilliant. "It is."

Kevin frowned. "But what if they decide to press her for details. I don't want . . ."

"Kevin," Julia interrupted, "you worry too much. It's not going to happen."

"What makes you say that?"

She sighed, and Jeff deftly stepped in to ask Elizabeth about her custard, allowing her mother to speak to Kevin with some degree of discretion. "Because there's almost no contact any more. Tommy's pretty much moved on, so we hardly ever see him, and it's been months since I spoke to most of the others. The Walkers, for the most part, seem to think it's disloyal of them to try to maintain any contact with someone who refused to drink their particular brand of Kool-Aid. Nora calls occasionally, of course, but she's . . . conflicted, I think. I'm pretty sure she knows what Tommy has done, but she doesn't want to believe it. She doesn't want to face the fact that he's abandoned his daughter, so it's just easier to keep her distance. The only one who hasn't changed is Justin. He still calls sometimes, and he sounds the same, but he's got his own issues, doesn't he? So there really isn't much to worry about, is there?"

Kevin's eyes were suddenly filled with shadows. "And Scotty? Does he . . ."

"No," she said quickly. "I think it's too painful for him. Thinking of Lizzie reminds him . . ."

"Yeah, okay. I get it, but . . ."

But Julia was determined. "Trust me, Kev. When I tell the Walkers about the new man in my life, that'll pretty much put an end to any substantial contact they have with me. And when I mention that he has a brother named Kevin, they'll barely notice, but it will explain any casual comment Lizzie might make."

Kevin opened his mouth to argue, but then - abruptly - he closed it again, conceding the truth of her comment, a truth that he once would have denied with his last breath.

"So," she said slowly, "are you okay with this?"

At that point, Kevin turned to study Jeff's face and took a moment to choose his words carefully. "This extraordinary little girl," he said finally, gently, "has been through too much in her young life, and deserves everything beautiful and bright and blessed. For that matter, so does her mother. Can you guarantee that?"

To his credit, Jeff Aldridge did not offer a knee-jerk response. Instead, he paused to consider how best to answer. "Sometimes, life throws curve balls, and we don't know how we'll respond until it happens, so I won't offer you any mindless guarantees. But I can promise you this: I'll spend the rest of my life doing my very best to build a good life for them - and for us, as a family. Julia has told me all about you, Kevin. Everything - good, bad, and in-between. So I don't say this lightly. I would be very honored to consider you my brother."

He extended his hand across the table, and Kevin, after a pause that was so brief it was almost - almost - unnoticeable, accepted it; the unbreakable bond of one gentleman to another.

Kevin's smile was suddenly very bright, and more than a bit mischievous. "You need to understand that I haven't always had the best experience with brothers. Nor can I claim to have always been the best brother in return. So be forewarned."

"I'll keep that in mind," replied Jeff, looking only slightly perturbed, just as Kevin had intended, remembering that Julia's father - despite being something of an ogre and a bully - had never been able to intimidate Tommy enough to insure his devotion to his wife and daughter; therefore a little bit of extra pressure - from an unexpected direction - might just do the trick. It was certainly not the nicest, most compassionate means of exerting influence, but insuring Elizabeth's welfare - and her mother's as well - was worth the effort.

"Good. Now I could use a drink. How about you guys?"

Jeff Aldridge could not quite suppress a sigh of relief, and Julia could not quite bite back the smile that touched her lips. She loved Jeff, and she believed, with her whole heart, that he loved her in return, and that he also loved her daughter. But she had worried about Kevin's reaction, believing that he might see her new partner with clearer eyes than her own, since he had his own agenda to follow; an agenda totally removed from any his brother might have followed. Tommy took care of Tommy. Always. In that, he was much like his sisters. But Kevin was different, despite his claims of being totally self-centered. Kevin took care of those he loved, and no other man would ever love Elizabeth the way that Kevin loved her. She was his daughter, no matter what her birth certificate might say.

And he deserved the right to approve - or disapprove - of the man who would stand in his place and raise his child.

Kevin was Elizabeth's father, and someday, Julia had already decided, she would know it. She looked up and studied his face, as Elizabeth, having finished her treat and climbed into his lap, managing to transfer smears of pudding and caramel to his shirt, his hands, and his face, was now engaged in filling him in about her progress in tumbling class and how much she loved her new trampoline. His smile was achingly gentle - almost painful to behold - and the light in his eyes, when he looked up and met her gaze, spoke to her and told her that - somehow, impossibly - he knew what she was thinking.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Sunset.

He had spent months now in trying to decide which moment of the day was his least favorite, and he still wasn't sure.

Sometimes, it was that sweet second at the pale, fragile birth of day, when the first gentle finger of light made its way through blinds and curtains to wash away the darkness and make him remember how it felt to waken beneath the gaze of beautiful blue eyes, so filled with love and joy that he was instantly rendered boneless and breathless with desire and contentment.

Sometimes, it was moonrise - the instant when glints of silver stirred the air and frosted the night, reminding him of how the light would glisten in drifts of dark hair and turn those self-same blue eyes to bottomless pools of deepest sapphire, shadowed with lust and hunger and taking his breath away even before full, luscious lips devoured his own.

Sometimes, it was the carousel brilliance of mid-morning, washing the world in a glittering veil of clarity - illuminating classic features and focusing, somehow, on the perfection of a blinding smile. And sometimes, it was at the crest of afternoon, when the sun seemed to concentrate and pour liquid gold into the atmosphere, always most delectable when it fell - undeflected - on a face that would forever be his primary definition of beauty.

Sometimes.

But mostly - almost always - it was now, at this moment. When the sun was slipping down to touch the horizon, firing its final bolts of brilliance towards the heavens and fighting against the encroachment of night. Now - when the world would have been at its most perfect moment, when the day was ending and the night was approaching. When Kevin - in a universe that was more perfect than anyone had known at the time - would have turned away from his professional obligations and duties and turned into the arms of the man he loved.

Somehow, Scotty always noticed this moment; somehow, he always knew it had come, even if he was horrendously busy with whatever task might claim his attention. Somehow, he always paused - for the space of a heartbeat - and mourned something so elementary that it had barely even been acknowledged when it had been part of a daily routine.

This day was no different.

The kitchen was busy, as always. The reservation book was full, with lots of regulars expected, and there were two large dinner parties scheduled as well: the Robleys' anniversary bash, for family and close friends, numbering 38 in all, to be held in the main dining area, and a private celebration dinner in honor of the publication of the second book of a new series of young adult novels by Sarah St. Germain - widely hailed as the next-generation J. K. Rowling - in the new private salon of the restaurant.

Scotty allowed himself a weary smile when that thought crossed his mind. He could almost hear a particularly laconic voice commenting on the semi-satirical nature of that simile, and wondering how it had come to pass that such a projection could be the peak of publishing aspirations - a new Rowling in the genre she had claimed for her own, rather than a new Faulkner or a new Hemingway or a new Fitzgerald.

The literary world, in the aftermath of Harry Potter, had become a radically different place in a remarkably short period of time.

From his own perspective, Scotty found it a bit too different.

He sighed as he approached the open door to the new dining area.

The renovations had been completed only a couple of weeks earlier, and Scotty had to admit that the decorator had done a spectacular job. No one who studied the private chamber, with its wainscoted, slubbed silk walls, stained glass, mullioned windows, and Tiffany-style chandeliers would have guessed that it had previously been a private office fronting a storage area.

All traces of its utilitarian past had been erased. 

Every trace. Even the hardwood floor, which had born scuff marks from desks and bookcases being moved, and from other . . . things; that was gone too, replaced with dark, gleaming slate.

Scotty could barely stand to look at it, although Saul was vocally delighted with it - loudly and repeatedly - and frequently annoyed with Scotty's ridiculous melancholy sentimentality.

It was, after all, just a room. The elder partner was rapidly losing patience with his increasingly moribund young chef.

Saul could not know, of course, that the first night spent in this - Scotty and Kevin's new home - had been spent in this room, with a picnic basket, a couple of bottles of outrageously expensive wine, a Boze system playing ridiculously romantic ballads, and a couple of sleeping bags zipped together. There had been a perfectly serviceable bed upstairs, of course, one that they had long ago claimed as their own; but it had seemed appropriate somehow to spend that first night downstairs - where they would practice their professions and build their futures.

Perhaps they had intended to go upstairs before the night was over, but, in the end, they hadn't. The night had devoured them, as they had devoured each other, and it had always seemed to him that it was the time they'd shared then that had christened this place, made it theirs in a way that nothing else ever would.

Scotty paused at the door to the room and noted that the moment - that special moment - was at hand. He took the opportunity to check - from a distance - to make sure everything was ready; that the linen was spotless, the china and crystal perfectly laid, flowers and candles beautifully arranged.

Everything perfect - but he did not go in. In fact, he almost never did.

Saul thought - and frequently said - that his reluctance was silly, and that was okay. Saul was entitled to his opinion.

But that didn't change the fact that he would deliberately avoid that room, probably for the rest of his life.

Unless . . .

He shook off the thought and made haste back to the kitchen where a standing rib roast and an accompanying Sauce Bordelaise awaited his attention. It was the favorite of Matthew Allman, the owner of Allman House, the publishing giant, who was hosting the announcement dinner for the author, and who - not so coincidentally - had approached Scotty recently about the possibility of publishing a cookbook of his recipes.

Scotty had scoffed initially, but . . .

The idea had begun to grow on him.

Artists, after all, expressed their deepest emotions - love, joy, loss, tragedy, despair - through their art. Painters created masterpieces on canvas; composers penned symphonies; writers wrote and gave birth to whole new worlds. If his cooking was his art, did it make sense to pour his heart - broken though it might be - into new culinary masterpieces? Would he find some kind of solace in his artistry?

Matt Allman thought so, and had pointed out that the publication of original cookbooks, by creative chefs, had become a hugely profitable industry.

Could he become a member of that elite registry? Did he want that kind of notoriety? Or money?

Would it ease the broken heart within him?

No, he was pretty sure it wouldn't.

But being rich and famous and heartbroken would probably be better than being poor and unknown and heartbroken.

What else did he have?

It had been more than six months, and only recently had he begun to accept a bitter truth. Kevin was gone; Kevin was not coming back.

What did he have in his life that could replace what he had lost?

Nothing. But maybe it was time he began to try to find a new direction, a new focus. Anything to take away the emptiness that surrounded him.

In a little while, he would begin the assembly of his classic Sauce Bordelaise, using his own signature blend of herbs and spices and adding a generous dash of the ingredient that was uniquely his own contribution to the elegant finished product.

He could not paint a Mona Lisa, or scuplt a Pieta, or compose a Für Elise, or write a Pulitzer-worthy novel, but he could do this, could create his own version of this magnificent entree, could make what no one else could. It was not, of course, enough; nothing would ever be enough to make up for what he had lost. But perhaps it would be better than nothing.

He couldn't remember the last time he'd had something to look forward to - some purpose that made him want to get out of bed in the morning.

Perhaps it was time he started trying to find that purpose. He wasn't stupid, of course; he knew why he had never bothered to go searching before.

If he looked for something - and found it - it was a tacit admission that there was no hope of regaining the world that lay behind him. It was giving up; it was letting go.

It was accepting that Kevin was gone and would not be returning.

Now there was a thought he could refuse to dwell on.

A glance outside confirmed that the liquid gold brilliance of a California sunset was still in its prime moment of beauty, which - he judged - was a perfect motivation for taking a walk to enjoy the experience. He had a quick errand to run, since he'd forgotten to pick up Saul's prescriptions from the nearby medical complex, and it gave him a purpose for his walk. The drive would take two minutes; the walk no more than ten, and he needed something on which to fix his concentration. Something besides . . .

He exchanged his chef's jacket for the light denim that was his casual favorite - a gift from . . .

_Damn it!_

He turned his collar up against the slight chill in the wind, as he set off at a rapid pace, cutting through a small public garden and determined to focus on the lovely quality of the light, or the sleek form of a Jaguar F-type convertible, pewter-colored and growling with barely leashed power as it went purring by, or the adorable little boy wearing a Game of Thrones t-shirt while sitting on a bench with an elderly woman and enthusiastically enjoying a double dip ice cream cone.

A beautiful portrait of a multi-generational family. So beautiful that Scotty paused for a moment to consider . . . family.

Not his own family, of course. There wasn't much to contemplate there. His father had disappeared from his life - almost entirely - in pursuit of the kind of happy marriage he had never known with Scotty's mother. As for Bertha, she had recently returned to Arizona, to bury herself in a 'spiritual reawakening' - her term for a renewed dedication to the principles of her ultra-conservative protestant church. She had gone reluctantly, still harboring a desperate hope that she might find a way to reform her wayward son and convince him to turn away from his chosen debauched lifestyle. She had been doomed to failure, of course; Scotty could no more change his sexual orientation than he could change the color of his skin. But she had never given up on him, and had departed, finally, believing that she had, at least, achieved some small degree of success. He might never love a woman or have a traditional family, but she had been pretty sure that he would never take up with another 'partner in sin'.

Scotty might remain homosexual in his mind, but it really wouldn't matter so long as he did not practice his vile perversions. And - from Bertha's perspective - the reason for those perversions was gone. Kevin Walker had walked out of her son's life, and just possibly managed to save his soul. 

It was not ideal, of course, but Bertha, at this point, would settle for what she could get.

That was definitely not a thought that Scotty wanted to pursue. Better to turn his attentions elsewhere.

Kevin's family - larger than life, all consuming, loud, brash and carnival-colored and more than happy to be the focus of anyone's attention.

The Walker family - excepting only Nora, and Justin, perhaps - had moved on. They had moved heaven and earth in a search for their brother - for a while - but they were not prone to clinging to lost causes.

Life goes on; Scotty thought it should be etched on a Walker family crest.

Only Nora still cried, but she did it in silence, and only when she was alone. Or maybe, once in a while, when Justin came upon her in the still of the night, when she could not quite summon up the determination to conceal the depth of her pain from her youngest.

Kitty had become a political force to be reckoned with, rumored to be on the fast tract to a position of power in the California division of the Republican National Committee. Her status as Robert McCallister's widow and her national reputation as a conservative pundit had opened a lot of doors for her, and the one personal issue which might have proved problematic for her career had gone the way of all flesh when her affair with young Seth Whitley - grad student and aspiring writer - ended, exactly as Kevin had predicted. When the novelty had worn off and she had realized that their only common ground occurred in the bedroom, she had quickly said her tearful farewells and jetted off into the sunset. To Washington actually, where she had discovered any number of prospective suitors to offer solace for her not terribly broken heart.

Tommy had built himself a new life as well, with a new woman. He had not yet married his new soul mate - his Rose from Seattle who had inadvertently exposed a whole cellar full of Walker skeletons - but the two were constructing a golden future for themselves, as they'd discovered that they shared a gift for generating wads of cash by engaging in a new age process known as 'flipping houses'. 

It was a 21st century kind of California gold rush, and they seemed to be riding its wave into staggering financial success. Tommy had never been happier, finally feeling that he had achieved status that would have been worthy of his father's approval. Of course, there was one fly in the golden ointment; the memory of his failed marriage and his inability to sire children bothered him sometimes, and he even wondered, occasionally, if he should make some effort - legally - to gain custody of his only child. But he never pursued it, and, as time went on, he thought about it less and less, for . . . there was a bottom line there, wasn't there? The ugly truth was that Elizabeth was not truly his daughter, and no legal document would ever change that. So, for the most part, he was relieved that he would finally be able to support her financially - if Julia ever chose to force the issue. But mostly, she didn't, so he confined his interest in the little girl's life to birthday and Christmas gifts, sporadic cash contributions, and occasional phone calls.

Elizabeth didn't seem to mind, and Julia minded even less.

They were the past; Rose was his future.

Sarah and Luc were still devoted to each other, more in love than ever and each enormously successful in their chosen fields. Luc was in the process of completing a series of paintings for display in a chic collectors' gallery in Greenwich Village, and Sarah's communications network was growing by leaps and bounds. Still, they had begun to feel overwhelmed by career demands and decided that the risk to their relationship was too great to ignore, so they had taken a month off to enjoy a trip to Australia and New Zealand, along with a South Pacific cruise, while Paige and Cooper spent the time with their father.

So success all around among the siblings, though in widely divergent directions.

Still, Kitty, Sarah, and Tommy continued to share one specific attitude; all remained angry and resentful toward the brother they blamed for deserting them; none, of course, ever conceded that there were moments when they missed him terribly, or needed him intensely.

The only sibling who refused to blame Kevin was Justin, who still had troubles of his own. Despite making valiant efforts, Justin had never managed to get over Rebecca completely. He had proved to be a tower of strength for other members of his family and had grown into a fine young man. But he was still alone and uncommitted, still desperately missing his brother, and for that reason, he was the member of the Walker clan Scotty trusted most, and consistently turned to when he needed a kind word or a supportive gesture.

But he was wasting time and effort, standing here thinking about facts of life that would remain unchanged, no matter how much he pondered, and he had more important things to do. He would finish his errand and then . . .

Later, he would be uncertain what it was that stopped him in his tracks. He didn't think he'd actually seen anything that alarmed him; nor had he heard anything - exactly.

So he would never be sure what it was that made him freeze and turn back to stare down at the little boy sitting on the park bench, with ice cream smeared across his features as he chattered away in his own unique version of toddler-speak, to the woman who smiled down at him.

There was nothing really - nothing but . . .

He stared in silence, and then saw a figure coming forward from the park entrance, and, in that instant, the world actually seemed to shift around him as he realized why he'd stopped. It was not recognition - exactly; there had been no specific familiar feature to trigger such a defined response. But there had been just the tiniest hint; just a nuance of instinct.

The young woman moving toward him was, as always, quite stunning, and had perhaps become even more so, as the years had gone by and she had developed an unerring fashion sense. Time had been kind to Michelle, as her physical beauty had only intensified as she'd matured. In addition, she had been fortunate enough to make the right kind of contacts in the fashion world in order to launch her own fledgling line of designer handbags. Clad in lace-trimmed Nina Ricci casuals and Lanvin ankle boots, she looked smart and self-assured. Like everyone not born to wealth, she had known her share of hard times, but - somehow - she always managed to look Park-Avenue chic. 

Composed, stylish, beautiful. Very Michelle. Except for the look on her face when she realized that it was Scotty standing in the middle of the walkway, the look of confusion in his beautiful eyes shifting to a dawning, horrified awareness as he stared first at her and then down at the little boy who had stopped chattering away as he became aware of the tall stranger looking down at him.

And for the space of a heartbeat, the world seemed to go completely still - a vivid tableau in shades of gold and scarlet and autumnal jade, limned by deep, opaque shades of gray.

Scotty didn't understand very much, didn't even understand how he knew what he knew - but he knew nonetheless. There could be no doubt as the eyes staring up at him - blue and thick-lashed - were mirror images of his own eyes.

When the moment stretched and then shattered - as it must - he turned, feeling stiff and graceless, as if his limbs had forgotten how to flow from one position to another; thus his shift to confront the woman who had been his childhood friend, his deeply trusted companion, was rough and jerky, betraying the depth of his confusion. But it was nothing compared to the shadows of agony in his eyes.

"What did you do?" It was barely a whisper, and Michelle - still twenty feet away - could not possibly have heard him. But there was no need for her to hear it. Beneath the surface of her mind, she had been dreading this moment for almost two years. Somehow, she had always known it would come to this.

"Scotty," she replied, hurrying forward, even though every instinct within her consciousness was screaming at her to run away. "Scotty, please . . ."

There was more than a nuance of panic in her voice, suggesting that she was desperately looking for a way out - an escape route, but she knew that such an attempt would be pointless. Whether she stood and faced it now or not mattered little; she would still have to face it.

"What did you do?" Scotty repeated, as his legs finally failed him and he collapsed to his knees, bringing him face to face with the beautiful little boy sitting on the park bench with his grandmother - Michelle's mother, whom Scotty would certainly have recognized immediately if he'd actually taken a good look at her.

Michelle forced herself to stand still, fiercely resisting the urge to grab her little boy - the child of her loins - and run away, as far and as fast as she could. But it was too late. No matter how far she ran, she knew she would never forget the level of pain or the awareness of betrayal mirrored in Scotty's eyes.

Still, he said nothing, and he seemed to be having trouble catching his breath. 

Michelle could not avoid the cold flood of shame that raced through her. Scotty was not speaking, she realized, because he couldn't; the words would not come. Strangely, she realized that she would have preferred it if he had screamed at her, berated her, accused her of the vile treachery of her betrayal. The fact that he did none of that only deepened her feelings of guilt.

"Scotty?"

No answer; no response at all. He just continued to stare, his eyes drinking in the beauty of the tiny child who was now looking back at him, apparently every bit as enchanted as the grown man who was unable to look away.

When Scotty finally found his voice, he did not shout; did not accuse; did not scream his anger and frustration.

Instead he whispered. "Do you know what you've done? What you did to us . . . to him?"

Deliberately, coldly, Michelle sat down on the bench and took the little boy - her little boy, no matter what any cold legal document might say - onto her lap. "I do," she answered, trying to suppress the tremor in her voice. "I know. But do you know what the two of you tried to do to me? You tried to use me, like a fucking incubator. Like a machine to grow your little clone, so that I'd be nothing to him - so that you could just come in and take over when he was born perfect and complete and leave me just empty. Just a used-up shell. And I couldn't let you do that. He's mi . . ."

"No." Not a whisper now. Louder - and stronger. "He was never yours to keep. You agreed to this. You came to us, Michelle. You wanted this. You . . ."

"But I couldn't know, could I?" she interrupted, pulling the child closer. "I couldn't imagine how it would be - to feel him growing inside me, to realize that it was my blood and my body that nourished him and fed him and sheltered him. How could I know that? And how could I just let him go? How could I . . ."

"Stop it!" Scotty snapped. "You know better. You know me better than that. You know I would never have cut you out of his life. You know that I would have . . ."

"I do know you," she interrupted, face now red and blotchy and eyes gleaming with desperation. "But I also knew Kevin, didn't I? I knew how he felt about me; I knew he'd never have wanted me to be a part of my baby's life, no matter that he wouldn't exist without me. And I knew how much you loved him. In the end, you'd have given him what he wanted, and I'd . . . I'd just have been thrown away, like yesterday's garbage."

Scotty's eyes were huge now and filled with shadow. "Oh, my God, Michelle. You never knew him at all. Kevin was . . ." He fell silent then, knowing he would never be able to make her see the truth. Michelle believed what she wanted to believe - what she needed to believe in order to excuse what she'd done.

"He's so . . . perfect," he said finally, extending one hand to brush a dark curl back from the child's forehead. A perfect child; a perfect little boy. His little boy!

_A son. My son!_

"What's his name?" he asked finally, deliberately swallowing the anger that threatened to sweep him away in a raging tide of bitterness and recrimination.

"Daniel." That was Michelle's mother, who had witnessed this confrontation with a growing sense of desperation. She knew - had always known - that what her daughter had done was wrong. But then, she'd reasoned, it was equally wrong for two men to marry and father a child, so - using a bit of twisted logic - she'd concluded that one wrong cancelled out the other.

Specious, of course, but she'd loved her grandchild so much that she'd decided she could live with the deception.

Until now. Until she'd read the terrible heartbreak in this beautiful young man's eyes. She had known Scotty almost as long as Michelle had, and she tasted bitter shame as she wondered how she'd managed to forget what a lovely, generous individual he had always been.

Did anything else really matter?

"Daniel," Scotty echoed. "Beautiful name."

"Yes," Michelle replied. "For a beautiful child."

Scotty shifted then, drawing closer. "Can I . . . can I hold him?"

Michelle easily identified the terrible need in her old friend's eyes, and she almost relented; almost gave in, even though that voice within her was still insisting that she should gather her son and run for her life.

Almost.

"No. Not just . . . yet."

"Michelle, I'll . . ."

"You'll what?" she demanded . "Take him from me. Cause a scene. And I'll scream for the police, and we'll say you assaulted me and tried to take my baby. How do you think they'll react to that?"

"But he's not . . ."

"No? His birth certificate says he's mine. You want to fight it out, Scotty? In court? The law hasn't quite caught up with the times, you know. I've checked. So maybe - maybe you just need to chill out so we can talk . . . about alternatives, maybe."

Scotty quickly cupped the child's chin with a gentle hand before rising to his feet. He was still unsteady, but growing less so with each moment. Confusion was giving way to something else, and if that something else included no small measure of anger, then so be it.

"What kind of alternatives?" he asked finally.

Michelle glanced at her mother, who nodded quickly. It wasn't as if they had not discussed this possibility before, and she knew her role.

"Mom's going to take Daniel home," said Michelle, as she rose and shifted her son into his grandmother's arms, "and you and I are going to have a drink. Or two."

Scotty wanted to argue, his eyes devouring the sight of the son he'd only just discovered. He wanted to refuse to let him out of his sight, but he didn't. He wanted the child safe and happy, and, for the moment, that meant allowing him to go on living the life to which he was accustomed. 

For now.

But first - he stepped forward quickly, allowing no argument, and touched his lips to his son's forehead. "Hi, Daniel," he whispered. "I'm your daddy, and I'll see you soon."

He did not speak again until grandmother and child were safely ensconced in a taxi and on their way home, to an address he made sure he heard when it was given to the driver.

"Now about that drink," he said then, noting that Reilly's Tavern was just across the way. He thought that a nice, big draught of Irish whiskey might be just the thing.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Michelle drank quickly, but her breathing was still uneven, almost harsh. "I don't know how to begin," she whispered. "I never meant it to happen like this. I planned. . . " She paused, and he was stunned to note tears rising in her eyes. "It wasn't supposed to happen now. Not yet. I wanted to tell you when . . . when you were ready to hear it. But . . ."

"When I was ready to hear it?" He couldn't quite control the venal sneer in his voice. In fact, he had no desire to do so. She had earned his anger, and she should hear it.

"Scotty, I can . . . I can't make your life perfect again. I know that. But I . . . I think I can make it better. I think I can give you something to make up for what you've lost. But . . . but you have to promise me that you'll hear me out; that you'll listen to me and not . . . not judge me."

"When have I ever judged you?" he asked quickly, and the flicker of light in her eyes told him that she knew he was right. He never had. Of course, it also acknowledged that he had never before had such a good reason.

"Until now."

He did not bother to argue, as he took a giant gulp of his drink.

"I was going to wait," she said slowly, turning aside to look toward the window where the evening light was a thick, liquid gold. "I planned to build up my own life and become this big fashion success, and then come to you with this. From a position of strength, you know. And I thought I could do that, but . . . now, now I guess that's all just a pipedream."

If she was waiting for some kind of comment or commiseration, she was doomed to disappointment.

She would have to go on, to forge ahead - to hope that he would be able to understand what you was saying. What she could give him.

"You have to understand, Scotty. In the end, I just couldn't . . . I couldn't give him up. He was a part of me. Not Kevin. He was mine. Mine - not Kevin's. So I ran away. I lied and said I'd lost the baby, and I went to New York to have him. I never meant it to hurt you guys so much; honest to God, I didn't. I never dreamed that it might destroy your marriage."

Scotty remained silent, turning to motion to the waitress to bring another round. Scotty had never been one to depend on Dutch courage, but, at this moment, he figured he could use all the help he could get. "You stole our son," he said then, deliberately not looking at her. "Do you have any idea . . . what you did to us? Do you . . ."

"I do," she said quickly, unwilling to hear the rest of the accusation. "And I'm truly sorry. I know it was wrong. And I know it's too late to fix what's broken. Kevin is gone, and you seem to think he's not coming back. I can't do anything about that. But . . ."

"But what?"

"But I can give you something else, can't I? I can give you a family. A real family, with a partner and a son. I mean, I know you'll never fancy me, but that's okay. We could have our own little arrangement, and . . . and maybe someday, you'll find another man to fill your bed, but I could be . . . Daniel and I could be . . ."

"Shut up!" Sharp and harsh and strident, and so filled with pain that she could barely stand to hear it. "If you value your life, don't say another word."

Michelle's eyes were huge as she realized that Scotty - her gentle, beloved, lifelong friend, Scotty - had just threatened her. He didn't mean it, she knew, but it was unbelievable just the same. Quickly she rose and picked up her handbag. But she would not go in silence. "I know you're in shock, and I know you're hurt. But take some time to think about it. Think about what I'm offering; think about having something - someone - to fill your empty life. Really think about it, and when you do, I'll be around."

But he couldn't really think about it, could he? For every time he allowed the thought to rise in his mind, it automatically triggered the vision of what they could have had - what he and Kevin had lost.

The sun slipped down below the horizon, at last, draping darkness across the world, and Scotty welcomed it.

He had never felt more alone.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

tbc


	10. One Too Many Mornings

Broken Mirrors

Chapter 10: One Too Many Mornings

_From the crossroads of my doorstep,_   
_My eyes start to fade_   
_As I turn my head back to the room_   
_Where my love and I have laid,_   
_And I gaze back to the street,_   
_The sidewalk, and the sign,_   
_And I'm one too many mornings_   
_And a thousand miles behind._

\-- _One Too Many Mornings_ \-- Bob Dylan

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

It was the week-end, and he woke up late, alternating between drowsing and watching bars of sunlight travel across the parquet flooring of his bedroom. He liked week-ends, for the most part. He was usually busy, leaving little time for moping or melancholy memories. It was just past eight, and he acknowledged that he should be up and about already.

The restaurant was exceptionally busy on Saturday nights, and this one would be no exception, so it should be sufficient to occupy his mind.

Except, of course, that nothing did lately.

For months, he had been consumed with thoughts of Kevin and the life they'd once shared, and he was more convinced with every passing day that the tragic sense of loss would never leave him. But now . . . now there was something else.

Now, he was a father. 

_Three days. Could it only be three days ago that he'd learned of the existence of his child?_

_Daniel. His son. Not the name they would have chosen, of course; he and his husband had not yet decided on a name for their child, but he was pretty sure that Daniel would not have been in the running. For that matter, they had not discussed the topic of the surname that would have been used: Walker-Wandell or Wandell-Walker - or maybe just Walker. Kevin had never even broached the subject, but Scotty knew his husband well enough to intuit his desire to be the one to pass on the family name - legally if not genetically._

He had spoken to no one since his confrontation with Michelle. After all, who would he tell? And how would he explain it without . . . without risking his own place in the hierarchy of the Walker family?

He had been universally forgiven for his betrayal of his husband, by each and every member of Kevin's family. He still did not completely comprehend why he had been so fortunate, or perhaps - as he sometimes conceded - he simply didn't _want_ to understand. The dynamics of Walker loyalty remained beyond his grasp, but he was absolutely certain of one thing. His in-laws had shown themselves capable of a degree of forgiveness he knew he'd had no right to expect, but this? This they would never forgive.

He knew it. And he knew something else.

They would never find it in their hearts to accept and tolerate this level of betrayal, and they would be right in refusing to do so.

_How could he possibly have been so fucking stupid?_

He remembered all the times that Kevin had hemmed and hawed around questioning his blind faith in Michelle - questioned . . . and then apologized, profusely, for doing so. And he remembered his own impatience, his own withering dismissal of his husband's concerns - his own unshakeable belief that it was all a product of Kevin's cynicism. He had known; he had _known_ , beyond all doubt, that Michelle would never betray him, and had put Kevin's reservations down as a product of his ingrained contrariness.

And now the truth lodged in his throat like a lump of spoiled meat; Kevin had been right all along.

_And he would never know._

He was pretty sure that scrap of certainty should provide some small measure of comfort, but it didn't. They had always shared everything - even the worst things - and sharing had somehow made it easier to bear the load. And now . . . _Who do I share this with? Who do I tell, and what do I do?_

He needed advice - someone to turn to; he needed Kevin, more than ever, but that bridge was burned and gone. There was no one.

He wasted a few moments speculating on how his mother would react to the knowledge that she was a grandmother. But he didn't pursue it. The thought of her crowing in delight over this proof of her son's manhood - and never mind the fact that the sperm that had impregnated Michelle had come from a test tube - well, it just wasn't to be borne. 

No. He could not talk to his family; he could not talk to Kevin's family. In the end, there was only one person he _could_ talk to. But he didn't think he could call her. What, after all, was he to say? 

_"You betrayed me and ruined my life, but that's okay if you'll just let me see my son."_

He didn't think so.

When the phone rang, he almost cringed away from it, wondering if she might have somehow divined what he was thinking and decided to wait no longer. She had obviously always known him much better than he had known her.

When it was Sarah's voice that wished him good morning, he was relieved - but not completely.

Sarah never called just to chat or to inquire about his health or his state of mind; she only called when she wanted something, and this time would be no exception, especially since she was freshly returned from her extended holiday.

"I need your help, Scotty," she said quickly, "and I need it fast."

"Sarah, I'm . . . "

"Please, please, please don't say no. Please just hear me out."

"I didn't . . ."

"I'd ask Mom, but she's on the road again with Brody - God knows where - and I don't know when she'll be back. And I'm up to my ears in merger meetings that were all arranged for me when I got home - and thank you, secretary-extraordinaire Phyllis - while Luc is working like mad to finish his last paintings for his gallery showing. And I just . . . well, I just forgot about this. And it's for Paige, so . . ."

"Sarah!"

"What?" Sharp, shrill - semi-angry.

"Just take a breath, and then - calmly, clearly - tell me what you need."

She took a breath. "Paige has been invited to participate in a junior league charity project, doing fundraising for the Save the Children campaign, and she's just over the moon about it. I've never seen her so excited. Anyway, her first assignment was to host a sort of a working brunch for the planning committee - mothers and daughters - to review various philanthropic organizations for solicitation of contributions for raffle prizes, and . . . oh, Scotty, I promised her I would handle all the details, but I . . . I got caught up in this expansion/merger business, and I just . . . I just forgot. And I can't possibly pull it all together now. I don't have the time, and, even if I did, it wouldn't hold a candle to what you can do, so I . . ."

"When?" Scotty asked, knowing she would simply go on and on and on if he didn't speak up.

She took a deep breath. "Tomorrow?" Her voice did not - quite - squeak.

He took a moment to swallow the eruption of outrage that she deserved. Instead, he spoke calmly. "For how many?"

"Sixteen." Breathless - barely audible.

"A working brunch, you said - which means they'd require a private space, away from the regular hustle and bustle of the cafe and its patrons."

"Exactly," she replied. "I knew you'd understand."

"And what would you do if I said I don't have such a space available?" He took some small amount of pleasure from the soft gasp she could not quite suppress, and smiled as he continued, "Our Sunday brunch buffets have become quite popular, you know. We're usually SRO very early on."

"Oh. I guess I . . . I hadn't thought of that. I guess I . . ."

"Oh, for God's sake, Sarah! Do you really think I'd let Paige down? But if you think you're getting away with playing lady of the manor while I bust my balls, think again. I'll plan the menu and prepare the food, but you'll do the shopping, the decorating, and help with the clean up. Deal?"

"But . . ."

"Deal?" he repeated, more sternly, absolutely certain that she was thinking of 101 excuses to account for her lack of co-operation. But he wasn't having it. "No negotiation," he continued. "My way, or not at all."

"Oh, all right," she agreed, her tone rough with outrage and the understanding that she'd been effectively roped and wrangled. "I'll come by this afternoon, to pick up the shopping list, and I'll figure out what we need to brighten up that mausoleum of a private dining room."

"That's fine," he replied, "but you won't be using the private dining room. That's already reserved."

"Then where will we be?"

Her voice was cold - suspicious - indicating that she already knew the answer, even if she couldn't quite acknowledge it.

"The remodel of the new private salon is finished." He was very careful not to mention the previous occupant of that space. "It should be perfect for your meeting."

For a space of several heartbeats, neither of them spoke, as both realized that there was nothing to say that would change a single particle of the desolation that settled in two hearts at once. 

"Guess I'll have to see it, to decide how to decorate." Her lack of enthusiasm was blatant.

"Guess you will." Curt and dry. If he had to deal with it, then so did the rest of the family. "Meanwhile, any menu preferences or problems? Allergies, vegan principles, things like that?"

"Not unless you count my daughter's newest food fetish. She's wants _crème brûlée_ three times a day."

Without conscious thought, he laughed. "Must run in the family. According to Justin, Elizabeth has developed the same addiction."

Another moment of silence, heavier this time, as they both acknowledged - silently - the family connection between the two girls.

When she spoke again, her tone was different - softer - and her voice was empty of all certainty. "I don't suppose . . ." An extended pause betrayed her reluctance to pose the actual question.

"No," he said firmly, then couldn't resist adding a sardonic note. "Do you really think I wouldn't have mentioned it already?"

She chose not to answer. 

"Okay," he continued, not really wanting to get into personal issues. "Uber healthy or knock-your-socks-off yummy? Name your poison."

"Well, these are women who live in the nosebleed section of society," she answered. "So - if you ask them - they'd probably opt for paleo-idealism. You know - lots of organic herbs and wild veggies. But . . ."

Scotty almost grinned. "Let me guess. You'd prefer to introduce them to temptations they simply can't resist."

This time, the smile was in her voice. "You know me way too well, Little Brother-in-law. So do you think we can work in some Bananas Foster French toast and Eggs Benedict with ultra rich Hollandaise?"

"Trust me," he replied warmly. "We'll have them waddling by the time they're done - fit for nothing but a poolside nap during the afternoon."

"Perfect. They may never forgive me for their over-indulgence, but they sure as hell won't ever forget me - or Paige - and that's the critical thing."

"How _is_ Paige?" he asked softly. "I haven't seen her much, not since . . ."

"Since you dropped your little bombshell at the dinner-from-hell?" she interrupted, and notes of outrage in her voice were softened by a vein of understanding. "It took a while for us to comprehend why you felt compelled to say what you said," she continued, obviously choosing her words carefully, "and it was very hard for her to hear. And even harder for her to understand why you had the right to say it and why she needed to own her part in it."

Scotty felt his breath catch in his throat. "Wait," he said softly, almost whispering. "Did you just . . . agree with me?"

"Why?" she replied quickly. "You think I'm too stubborn - and too arrogant - to own up to a mistake?"

"No, but you have to admit that it doesn't happen often - or easily."

She took a deep breath. "Point taken. But you were right, Scotty. However much Kevin might have contributed to the crisis in your marriage - and nobody denies that he did contribute - the fact that the rest of us chose to look down on him and refuse to take his side says a lot more about us than it does about him, or you. The fundamental truth is it was just easier for us to blame him and allow him to blame himself than to take a good hard look at everything that happened. Bottom line? When it was my marriage, or Tommy's or Justin's, we all closed ranks and presented a solid family front, and it didn't really matter much where the fault really lay. But for Kevin?" She paused, not entirely certain how to proceed. "In Kevin's case, _you_ had become too important to us for us to just take a stand against you - no matter how much you might have deserved it. And Kevin . . . well, the truth is that Kevin always seemed to be able to stand alone, without needing us to support him, and we all just assumed that he'd be able to do it again. I don't think we ever realized how alone he was, or how often we just left him there, with no one to turn to. So we made a choice. The easy choice, which was to ignore the facts and expect him to handle it and just make the problem go away. That's what he always did, you know. For all of us. So we assumed that he could do the same, for himself. And he couldn't. Proving, I guess, that everyone - sooner or later - needs someone to step up for him, to be there for him to lean on. And we . . . we just weren't there."

"No," he said softly. "You weren't. But then again, neither was I, was I? We all just left him to fend for himself. And now . . ."

When he paused, she felt compelled to urge him to continue. "And now?"

He sighed heavily. "Now, he's apparently found a way to do just that. He didn't leave us, you now. Not before we left him."

"You've given up, haven't you? You think he's not coming back."

"I think that he just couldn't stand against the floodtide any longer. He fought - his whole life, he fought - for his place in this family, for the respect he wanted to believe he deserved. But he was never able to believe it." He paused to swallow around the lump in his throat. "So . . . yes. I do believe that he's not going to come back to us."

"But . . . but he has to, Scottie. He just has to."

"Think about it, Sarah. For one moment, think about it from his perspective. Courtesy of our united front - our decision to stand together to confront him and convince him that it was his flaws that caused the problem - why the hell would he? He believes that he's the one who hurt all of us - that he's to blame for everything - so why would he ever come back?"

But she couldn't - quite - confront that ugly truth. "Because we love him," she insisted. "Because we love him so much, and need him so much."

"Yeah," he admitted with a sad smile. "We do. Only he doesn't know that, Sarah, because we never showed him. We all just assumed that he'd figure it out for himself, so we let him walk away. We let him shoulder all the blame. He does that so well, you know, and we let him, because it was so much easier on us to let it happen that way. And it worked perfectly. He wrapped himself in guilt, and then he just let us go, because we made sure that he believed we'd be better off without him. So . . . are you?"

"Am I what?"

The tone of his voice reflected a bottomless patience. "Better off without him?"

"What do you think?" she snapped.

This time, his tone was gentle. "I think that I wasn't sure I'd ever hear that coming from you. Justin was easy to convince. Hell, he was half way there from the beginning. And your mom knew the truth all along. On the other end of the spectrum, Tommy and Kitty will never reach this point. So congratulations on making real progress, and thanks for telling me. It almost makes me feel like I deserve my place in this family."

"But you . . ."

"Stop now," he said quickly, "while you're ahead. None of this solves anything, does it? It doesn't bring him back. But it might allow us to grieve together, a little less awkwardly. Maybe we should just go from there.

"So, how about . . ." He paused for a moment, lost in thought. "How about smoked salmon eggs Benedict, and _crème brûlée_ crepes? With Bellini cocktails - for the moms, of course - and virgin sunrises for the girls."

Sarah's sigh of gratitude was audible, even through the imperfect cell connection. "You're the best," she replied softly, knowing he would realize that the words were meant to express much more than a simple acknowledgement of his culinary prowess.

Scotty lingered in the warmth of his bed for a few more precious moments after assuring Sarah - his favorite sister-in-law - that he would do Paige proud, and wondered briefly if she would be gratified to know that he preferred her - make that greatly preferred her - to her sister.

He didn't actually dislike Kitty; he couldn't really dislike someone who loved his beloved Kevin, and who was loved in turn. But he admitted - only to himself - that he didn't always like her very much, especially when she was wearing her uber-conservative, ultra-Republican persona.

At those times, she reminded him of . . . He went very still, struck by a realization that he'd never experienced before. She reminded him of his mother!

He grinned when he tried to imagine which of the two women would be more insulted by that observation, but then he realized that it was a stupid speculation; his mother would be delighted to be compared to the famous, right-wing pundit. Kitty, on the other hand . . . now _there_ was a sufficient motive to smile. Kitty Walker McCallister, standing side-by-side with a champion of homophobic, Bible-thumping, fascist . . . Wait! Had he just called his mother a fascist?

Scotty sighed. Yes. He had. And yes. She had definitely earned it.

When the phone rang again, it was almost a relief to set aside such musings to answer it.

Almost.

"Scottie?"

He was mildly amazed to find himself unable to make a sound.

"Scottie? Please don't hang up. Please!"

He had to clear his throat in order to speak. "I'm listening," he finally managed.

"How are you?" Michelle's voice was almost steady. Almost.

"I'm not sure," he answered, opting for total honesty rather than cautious reserve.

She sighed. "I know. I know you must be . . . overwhelmed."

He managed a rough chuckle. "That's putting it mildly."

"We need to talk."

"You're just figuring that out _now_?" He couldn't quite suppress the spark of anger that made his voice sharp and cold.

Another sigh. "Scottie, if you're going to turn every conversation between us into a shouting match, or a sermon about my unforgiveable sins, then we should just stop now, and I'll walk away. Is that what you want? Because I could, you know, and you'd just have to . . ."

"Trust you? Is that what I'd have to do - trust you to take good care of my son, the child who has no relation to you? Like I trusted you before?"

"I guess this was just a waste of my time, wasn't it? You're never going to forgive me, are you?"

"I believed in you, Michelle. With my whole heart, and you . . . dear God, do you know what you did to us?"

This time, the sigh was almost a groan. "Yes, Scottie," she said finally. "I do know. I do. And I'd say I'm sorry, except . . . Scottie, I really loved you. I _do_ love you. But I . . . I'm sorry, but I love him more. I know I have no right, but that doesn't seem to matter. A person can't help who they love, can they? Isn't that what you've always believed? I know he's your son. I know, but that doesn't change the fact that I love him like my own. So we need to figure out if there's some way to resolve this. And I need to figure out if I can trust you enough . . ."

"You're not really going to play that card, are you? _You_? Questioning your ability to trust _me_? It would be laughable, if it weren't so tragic."

There was a pregnant pause as she decided how to respond. "Yeah? Well, you might want to reign in your drama queen a bit, Honey, because it's not going to help you out much in this situation. Is it?"

"Ahhh," he sighed. "So is that what you called for? To threaten me? Because it's a bit late for that, don't you think? What else are you going to do to me? What could be worse than . . ."

He didn't finish. Couldn't finish. Couldn't even begin to address the depth or the cost of her betrayal.

To his surprise, she was slow to respond, and her voice was rough with regret when she did. "I know. I really do know, Scottie. And I _am_ sorry for what happened. I know how much you . . . " Another deep breath. "I do understand, and, if you hate me now, well, I guess you have the right. But I can't go back and change it, can I? And I won't lie to you. Even if I could, I'm not sure I would. Daniel . . . he's everything to me. Can't you see that? Can't you at least try to understand that?"

Deep within him, a coldness settled around his heart, just as a tiny voice whispered in his thoughts. He would never forgive her; that was the cold, bitter truth. But, according to the voice, she didn't have to know that, and her not knowing could be played to his advantage. It was not the noble, selfless thing to do, but doing the noble, selfless thing had - in some ways - ruined his life. Perhaps it was time to take a step aside and approach things from a different perspective.

"Yes," he said, allowing his tone to reflect his weariness. "I suppose I can. But I don't know how to respond to you, Michelle. I don't know what to say or how to feel. I just . . . I'm just lost."

"Oh, I know," she replied, prompting him to observe, in a mental voice not entirely without a nuance of sarcasm, that she was beginning to sound a bit like a broken record. "But maybe . . . maybe there's something I can do to . . . well, not to earn your forgiveness, of course, but to help you find yourself, or something to live for. There _is_ something, you know. Or, rather, someone."

Another deep breath, and a voice suddenly full of resolve. "I can't bring Kevin back to you, Scottie, and I know that nothing will ever make you forget that. But maybe there is someone who can help, who can give you a new purpose, a new focus."

He was slow to answer, uncomfortably aware of a stirring of something that felt suspiciously like hope in his heart. "Are you . . . offering to let me have . . ."

"I'm offering," she interrupted quickly, sharply, "a chance to get to know your son. How well you get to know him, and how much you see him . . . well, that's a topic for discussion - later. But I have to know I can trust you, Scottie. I have to know you won't get the law involved, or try to steal him from me. I have to _know_. Do you understand?"

"Who would understand betrayal - better than me?" he replied.

"Promise me," she demanded.

"Michelle, I . . ."

"Promise," she demanded, "or no deal. I just walk away. Now, maybe you think you can find me; maybe you're even right. But not quickly or easily, I promise you. And think about this while you're scrambling around in your head for a way out. I love Daniel, and - more importantly from your perspective - he loves me. I'm the only mom he knows, and he'd grieve if anyone took him away from me. So you promise me now, Scottie. Or this is done."

"All right," he said after a deep, slow breath. "I promise."

"Good," she agreed. "Then we'll see you soon."

"Wait! When will . . ."

"That's for me to decide. I do believe you, but I won't take chances where my son is concerned."

It took every ounce of control he could muster to squelch the urge to scream that Daniel was not, indeed, her son. But he managed it. "Okay, then just . . ."

But it was too late. She was gone.

He knew he should get up and start moving; knew that continuing to sit there would only lead to wild speculation and somber brooding; knew that there was nothing . . .

But a voice spoke to him then - not the tiny, snide whispering voice that seemed to be in his head so much lately, but a different voice. A well-remembered, much-loved voice; the voice of the contrarian who had been an irreplaceable part of his life. A voice that muttered a time-honored maxim: _Trust - but verify_.

He almost smiled as he realized that a part of his beloved Kevin was still with him - would always be with him, would always guide him when he felt lost. It was, perhaps, not the best part - the loving, generous, compassionate part - but it was the brilliant, practical part.

_Why now?_ that voice asked. 

Why indeed? 

Scottie allowed himself a tiny smile as he rose and moved to the desk where he retrieved a tattered old address book from the top drawer. Trust - but verify - indeed.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

_Order - from chaos!_

Surely there had to be a famous quote on the subject, but he couldn't think of a single one.

The young man who was well on his way to becoming one of California's premier culinary superstars took a moment to close his eyes and remember those precious Saturday morning moments he'd stolen from his busy schedule to loll in his bed and indulge in a little reflection, and observed that, if he'd known what the subsequent twenty-four hours would entail, he might have chosen to stay there, head buried in pillow.

Still, he supposed there was some cause for allowing himself a moment of satisfaction as he gazed around his kingdom (aka his kitchen) and found that he and his staff had succeeded in juggling the dozens of impossible tasks required to deal with every crisis which had arisen during the Sunday morning rush, from the malfunction of the newly-installed Lattissima Plus machine, necessitating the retrieval of the ancient Mr. Coffee model from the storeroom, through an emergency run to secure fresh lemons for Hollandaise sauce when those in the cooler proved unacceptable, through the unexpected arrival of a well-known soap opera actress and her retinue, to an influx of art enthusiasts awaiting the opening of a Richard Jackson show at the new Innovation Gallery down the street.

The restaurant was full, almost beyond capacity.

In some ways, Scottie thought, 'almost' was becoming his favorite word.

In such a crowd, under such conditions, something must surely go wrong. It was practically inevitable.

But it hadn't - somehow. As the clock ticked toward noon, all seemed well.

Soft music served as a background to the buzz of relaxed conversation and the clink of cutlery and glassware, while the air was rich with scents of coffee, fresh-baked bread, cinnamon and nutmeg, and apple-smoked bacon - a heady combination. The regular Sunday brunch buffet table was still drawing a steady line of diners looking for refills, and the pastry cart was still requiring constant restocking as baskets of croissants, scones, brioches, and southern-style biscuits yielded golden treasures to eager fingers.

It was even serene enough - for the moment - for Scottie to indulge himself in a quick espresso without the slightest smidge of remorse for time wasted.

Everything was going well - or, at least, as well as it ever could when there were Walkers on the premises.

He had not spent much time inside the new salon this morning; in fact, he _never_ spent much time there, and never intended to do so. But he had looked in just long enough to check that the room was perfectly prepared, that the service was stellar, that the food met with the enthusiastic approval of the diners (judging by emptied plates and groans of appreciation) and that the guests seemed to be having a good time - especially the lovely little niece that he loved so much. Paige seemed delighted, and he was glad he had been able to help her out in her moment of need. She was _still_ his niece too, and he knew she always would be, unless . . .

No. Not going there; the morning had been just about as perfect as mornings could be these days.

The only truly awkward moment had happened in exactly the way it always did. Nora had rushed in - freshly returned from her road trip - just as the private brunch was getting underway, to the delight of her granddaughter and everybody else present. No one would ever resent the presence of Nora Walker at any kind of fundraising event; she was to charitable causes what Steve Jobs had been to software.

Still, she did not go straight into the salon to greet her daughter and the assembled company. First, she came to Scottie and wrapped her arms around him. Then she stood back, looking up into his eyes, and waiting - hoping to see something new there, some sliver of renewed hope.

Of course, there was nothing; he simply hugged her close again before giving her a gentle nudge toward the salon, knowing that it would be almost as difficult for her to walk into that transformed office as it was for him.

Nevertheless, she managed it, and voices were raised in greeting, everyone happy to see her. As the morning had worn on, Scottie had been convinced that the meeting and the brunch were going well. Then he had been touched when Paige had come to seek him out and express her gratitude and her affection with a fierce hug.

"All done then?" he asked, dropping a kiss on the top of her head.

"Just about. Mom and Mrs. Talbot and Grandma are finishing up the paperwork, and it looks like we're going to make gobs of money."

"Wonderful. I know your mom is so proud of you. And so am I."

She just smiled and turned away to go back to the salon, but she came to a quick stop as she moved into the dining room. "Scottie," she said softly, sounding a bit confused, "isn't that your friend? The one that was going to . . ."

Scottie, who had turned back to his task of seasoning a pork loin for the Sunday lunch crowd, heard something odd in her voice - something almost tentative.

So he turned quickly and looked out into the dining room, where a shaft of late morning light was streaming through the front windows to pool around the two individuals who were poised just inside the front door, waiting to be greeted.

Later, Scottie would wonder if his heart had really skipped a beat at that moment, or if he'd only imagined it.

The two were sufficiently beautiful, wrapped in that gilded radiance, to take away the breath of _any_ beholder, but one beholder in particular was guaranteed to be stricken to the heart.

Except for the fact that - for this beholder - of the two, only one mattered. Only one was beautifully clear and perfect.

_Our son_. The thought was completely involuntary and completely irrepressible. For that one incredible instant, he was filled with a joy he had never thought to experience again. In fact, there was only one thing that could have rivaled such a moment.

And then he remembered where he was, and - most critically - who was there with him.

Thus he turned and saw the one thing - of all things - that he would have given his life not to see.

Huge, dark eyes, wide and staring, in the face of the woman who had given him a place in her heart, a place almost equal to that of the son she'd lost. But one glance told him that this might well be the defining moment of the rest of his life, that he might have forfeited that place forever, for there was no hope of deceiving Nora Walker. It was there in her face; she knew, and she turned to gaze into his eyes, waiting for him to deny it. Perhaps even wanting him to deny it, but recognizing that it would be nothing more than an exercise in futility.

"Michelle," he called, moving forward quickly, "what are you doing here?"

"I told you I'd come," she replied, obviously confused by the alarm flaring in his eyes. "I thought you'd be happy to see us. I thought . . ."

And only then, drawn by a blur of motion in the corner of her eye, did she look up and spot the matriarch of the Walker family rushing toward her. It was immediately obvious that her first impulse was to grab her small companion and make a run for it, but it was also obvious that it was much too late for that.

Instead, she stood tall, braced her hands on Daniel's shoulders, and composed her features into a perfect expression of serenity.

_She'd have made a hell of an actress._ The thought flickered in Scotty's mind as he moved forward, suppressing an urge to run. _But it would not be enough._

Another thought followed immediately. _I knew it. From the moment I first saw him, I knew this had to happen._

And then there was no more time, and there were no more excuses. Nora was there, kneeling to examine the beautiful, little eyes that were equally focused on her own, with Sarah, Paige, and Saul arrayed behind her; all staring, all stricken speechless. All sensing the truth, though none had any idea how they knew.

They just knew.

The knowledge in their eyes was tentative at first, but growing steadily brighter, stronger, more certain. The sense of betrayal, however - that flashed into existence in the space between one heartbeat and the next, immediate, desperate, and complete, in and of itself.

From this moment, there would be no going back, and Scotty, frozen in a hopeless, eternal fragment of time, felt the major, fundamental shift that marked the end of one world, and the beginning of another.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

He did not like thinking about the approaching holidays. Thus, he made every effort to avoid conversations about time-honored traditions and reunions with beloved family members and the difficulties and expenses involved in making travel arrangements in order to be home for the big Thanksgiving celebration. 

He did not want to be reminded of how it felt to be part of a huge family that had more traditions than most, but he found, as the weeks passed and the days grew shorter, that some subjects were universal and almost impossible to dodge completely. Especially when his employers seemed determined to include him in their holiday prep and excitement.

The Bells had somehow - while he was busy dealing with putting one foot in front of the other and not paying attention to much else - transformed themselves from simple employers to something more. He didn't know how to define what they had become to him, and was even less certain about what he had become to them. He was actually pretty sure that he didn't really want to know. But he was not quite self-absorbed enough to ignore the fact that they were a childless elderly couple, beloved by pretty much the entire town around them but without much in the way of family of their own.

Kevin really - fervently - didn't want to find himself drafted in the capacity of kinship, but thought he might have been a bit too slow to avoid being maneuvered into that place.

It was a lazy Friday afternoon, the weather in the process of turning unseasonably cold, and a heavy mist layered the air in shades of pearl gray while distant rumbles of thunder echoed off to the West. Belinda Bell was busily thumbing through stacks of recipe cards, demanding assistance in deciding whether to stick with tried and true recipes for sweet potato casserole for the Thanksgiving dinner just a week away, or to experiment with something new. Did he favor traditional flavors, with pineapple or raisins, or would he prefer something more daring, with coconut and pecans, or maybe even a bourbon-praline blend with meringue? He tried to summon up some measure of enthusiasm, or - at least - an appearance of it, but found it impossible. He knew he was expected to spend his holiday at the Bell's home, enjoying the warmth of their hearth and the bounty of their table, but . . .

He wasn't sure he could pull it off. He conceded that it wasn't a healthy attitude, but was loathe to be anywhere with _anyone_ on that day - the favorite holiday of the man who had been the center of his life.

He doubted he would ever enjoy Thanksgiving again. The thought brought a tired smile to his lips; in truth, he couldn't think of a single holiday that did not engender a deluge of bright memories - once precious beyond imagining, and now just old, and painful, and all revolving around a face like no other, with a sweet, wistful smile, thick-lashed blue-gray eyes, perfect, sculpted cheekbones framing adorable dimples, and dark, facial stubble screaming to be touched.

The bottom line was that he didn't give a shit about Belinda's quandary; nothing would ever matter enough to make up for what was lost to him, and questions about food - in particular - were frequently painful for him. Nevertheless, he tried to be polite. 

He always tried to be polite. Maybe that was why his life was such a debacle. Politeness, it seemed, had never gotten him very far.

Still, he knew that he should be grateful that Belinda was willing to put up with his silences and his moods, and sometimes even managed to cajole him out of the shadows in which he normally dwelled. He was especially appreciative of the fact that she had never raised the one subject that he knew might prove too painful to bear.

Not yet anyway.

The Bells had very few family connections, none of them local. A couple of cousins on Belinda's side, and her younger brother who lived in Colorado. Other than that, there was only a great niece, the granddaughter of Charlie's deceased twin sister, who lived and worked in San Diego as a marine biologist. A very pretty niece - red-haired and green-eyed and unmarried.

Kevin had never asked for any details, but Belinda had supplied them anyway. Her name was Bridget Nichols, and she was apparently very good at her job, having gained national recognition for her work in various preservation campaigns. 

And she was coming to visit for Thanksgiving.

Kevin had literally spent hours trying to figure out a way to avoid meeting her; had even considered flying to Seattle for the holiday, but decided otherwise when he realized that his mother would never pass up an opportunity to speak to her granddaughter on such a special occasion. He trusted Julia implicitly, and knew she would never betray his trust, but he was never comfortable with putting Elizabeth in a position where she was forced to conceal the truth, even if she didn't realize she was doing it.

Best to avoid situations in which mentions of 'Uncle Kevin' would slip out all too easily in the joy of the moment, which _would_ happen if he were around too often for holidays.

He could, he supposed, invent some fictional personal obligation to justify taking a few days off, but it would be awkward. He had made a point of portraying himself as being without existing family ties, so coming up with some suddenly-remembered maiden aunt who required his immediate attention would look like exactly what it was: desperation, and would invite speculation about his obvious reluctance to avoid the Bell's generous hospitality.

Besides, there was the other issue: where would he go?

He couldn't think of a single destination that held the slightest interest for him, for, in truth, there was nowhere to spend Thanksgiving Day that would not give rise to old, agonizing memories, that would originate in every single thing that was a part of the day; everything from the aroma of turkey or pumpkin pies fresh from the oven, or the roar of the crowd in a football stadium, or glimpses of the Macy's parade on television, or the clink of glassware generated by pouring out portions of the lovely Spanish Albarino wine that . . . a certain person had discovered a few years earlier and designated a perfect accompaniment to traditional holiday fare.

Memories. Everywhere. And where he happened to spend the day would make no difference at all, unless he managed to seek seclusion, curled up in the solitude of his bed, with his nose buried in a good book, CD player carefully loaded with music that was decidedly _not_ associated with any aspect of his personal history, and a bottle of Chivas Regal for company.

Perfect. And impossible, unless he could convince Belinda that he was almost at death's door, suffering from some strange, nameless virus but would be fine with just a few hours of rest.

Unlikely, at best.

He would simply have to deal with the social obligations of the day, and hope that the lovely Bridget would have no interest in a quiet, moody, dull, basically uninteresting bartender. Maybe he'd get lucky; maybe she'd be a Lesbian.

He almost smiled when he reflected that his luck had not served him particularly well in the recent past.

Still, he was trying to appear moderately interested in Belinda's ongoing commentary which mostly involved comparisons of different spices and musings over which seasonal fruits might enhance her yam concoctions. Nevertheless, he was quick to take advantage of an opportunity to excuse himself and take a trip down into the cellar to retrieve a case of the Jim Beam bourbon which was always in demand by the pub's patrons. Thus, he was not behind the bar when the front door opened, and a tall figure paused there for a moment, framed against a sudden spate of rainfall outside; nor was he present to notice that all conversation fell silent as the newcomer stepped forward and looked up to face the crowd, accompanied only the growing roar of the rain driven by a fitful wind. If he _had_ been present, he would have noted that such a silence was uncharacteristic of the pub patrons, who _always_ had something to say about something.

He did notice it, however, when he returned from his errand, to find the gaze of every single customer fixed on the new arrival.

Thus he turned to investigate the cause of the unexpected development . . . and felt his breath freeze in his throat as sheer panic swept through his body, rendering him both speechless and unable to move a single muscle.

It could not be - could _not_ be.

But it was, of course, and some spiteful little voice in his mind insisted on reminding him that he had, only moments before, considered the possibility that he might - for once in his life - have some small stroke of luck.

The new arrival had not changed, except that he was - just possibly - slightly more beautiful than before, and Kevin could not suppress a sigh. Chad Barry would never be anything _but_ beautiful, and the smile on his face only served to emphasize that basic truth.

So this was it; this was the moment when all the barriers he'd built, all the new defenses he'd constructed would come crashing down around his ears.

He took a deep breath, finally able to shrug off his paralysis and step forward, resigned to the inevitable. And yet . . .

"Mr. Barry," he said, with a sardonic smile, "welcome to Bell's Pub."

And felt his breath catch once more in his throat as he read the glint of subtle irony that flared in those incredible sky-blue eyes. "Have we met, Sir?" asked the actor, moving forward and extending his hand. "You look familiar."

Kevin managed - just barely - to avoid the characteristic smirk which would have revealed the nature of his connection to the actor, to even the most casual observer, and react instead with a non-committal smile, as he reached forward to shake the proffered hand. "I'm pretty sure I'd remember that," he said easily, "since I doubt there's anybody in the state of California who wouldn't recognize you at first sight."

Chad, never missing a beat, shrugged out of his Burberry trench coat and raked long fingers through his hair, succeeding only in making tousled locks look even more fetching than before. "I'm flattered," he replied, eyes bright and eager, but finely tuned, refusing to devour the feast that stood before him - the feast that memory needed no real help to recall in exquisite detail. "And thirsty. So what do you have to warm the heart of a weary traveler on such a beastly day?"

"Well," Kevin said slowly, moving behind the bar and reaching into a narrow cabinet tucked away in a corner, "maybe you'd be interested in this."

He should have resisted, of course; should have pretended befuddled ignorance, but the temptation was just too great. The bottle of Glendronach 12-year-old single malt whiskey had been sitting undisturbed for a while - a bit pricey for the pub regulars - but perfect for a man whose love for the product of highland distilleries was almost legendary.

"Ah, a man after me own heart," the actor laughed as he took a seat at the bar. "Pour, Lad, and don't be stingy."

When Kevin obeyed, almost managing to control the tremor in his hands, and then moved to pull away, Chad stopped him by virtue of the simplest means possible. He reached out and touched that familiar hand, and smiled. "I don't like to drink alone, friend. Join me, please."

Kevin paused briefly, before nodding and pouring out a portion for himself. It was only then, when the two of them lifted their glasses in a small toast, that the other patrons of the bar seemed to catch their collective breaths and return to their conversations, although none of them would actually be able to ignore the stellar presence in the room completely.

Still, the shift in concentration was enough to allow the two old friends to show some small measure of familiarity.

"God," Chad murmured, "can I just say how fucking wonderful it is to see you? Do you have any idea how hard I had to work to find you?

Kevin sighed. "How did you?"

The actor grinned. "Pure, dumb luck."

Kevin leaned forward and braced his forearms against the bar, his eyes in constant motion to make sure no one else was close enough - or paying attention enough - to overhear. "Did it never occur to you that I didn't _want_ to be found?"

Chad Barry - he of the marvelously expressive eyes - recognized the weariness in his old friend's expression and had to fight to resist an urge to reach out and caress that lovely face. "Of course, it did. I'm not a complete idiot, Kevin. I know what you wanted, although I don't pretend to understand why. But I realized that there are things you don't know - things that were kept from you, that you have a right to know before you go riding off into the sunset with your nobility wrapped around you like a superhero's cape."

"What are you . . ."

Chad lifted a finger quickly, with an eye toward the plump waitress who was moving toward them. "Do you really want to have this conversation . . . now?"

Kevin took a deep breath and tried to figure out an appropriately subtle response. But, of course, he needn't have bothered. Belinda Bell had never in her life been deterred by intimations of subtlety.

"Come now, Kevin," she said with a huge grin. "You don't really think I'm going to let a real, honest-to-God movie star walk in here without plying him with some good, old-fashioned home cooking, do you?"

Said movie star favored her with a brilliant smile. "Now how could I resist an invitation like that from such a lovely lady?"

Kevin managed - barely - to suppress an urge to chuckle over the star-struck expression on his boss's face. "You won't regret it," he said quickly, "unless you're worried about your waistline."

Chad Barry allowed his eyes to drift down to examine the body which had once been his for the taking, figuring - rightly - that everybody in California knew, by now, exactly how he rolled and would make allowances to forgive him for taking the liberties he was expected to take. "Doesn't seem to have done you any harm, Friend," he replied, "so I think I'll take the risk."

For the next couple of hours, Belinda Bell did herself proud, and her patrons were pleased to be included in what turned out to be a memorable occasion which would be talked about for many years as The Day the Movie Star Came to Dinner - capitalization intended. Chad enjoyed his meal and - somewhat surprisingly - enjoyed the company as well, regaling his down-to-earth audience with stories about the movie he was currently shooting and anecdotes about famous people he'd worked with, and managing - during quick, stolen moments - to schedule a late, private meeting with an old friend.

And Kevin . . . after a rough period of struggling to manage jangled nerves, Kevin simply shrugged and decided to enjoy the moment, understanding that it might be his last chance to do so for a very long time. Fate, after all, did not bend to his will, no matter how intensely he might try to force the issue.

The rain storm passed, and the sky cleared before the onslaught of a cold front, as the evening progressed, and Kevin - just once or twice - allowed himself to bask a bit in the warmth of the gaze that occasionally, fleetingly, caressed him with well-remembered affection. It was mildly intoxicating, and he indulged himself slightly; he figured - and rightly so - that he would need some form of emotional and/or chemical fortification before this day was over.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Despite having spent plenty of time at the country club - certainly more than he'd ever intended - Kevin had never visited any of the luxury bungalows that were nestled into the garden-like grounds, each landscaped and positioned for privacy without loss of convenience. Despite his familiarity with the setting, he would have been skittish about appearing there, given the lateness of the hour, if the parking area had been barred or monitored, but neither was true. Though it was definitely an upscale area - even in California terms - it was also sufficiently remote and far enough off the beaten path to avoid the necessity for stringent security. Thus, when he pulled through the front gates, he was grateful to note that there were only a few vehicles scattered around the paved lot, and no one patrolling the area. Though there were undoubtedly night staffers on duty somewhere on the grounds, none were nearby as he rolled to a stop beside the classic Porsche that was so distinctive, it might as well have been monogrammed with the initials of its owner.

The sleek, beautiful sports car might have been custom made for its sleek, beautiful driver.

Per Chad's hastily whispered directions, Kevin walked around the north face of the clubhouse and followed the path that led to the most remote of the custom cabins. He paused for a moment, to catch his breath and gird his loins - metaphorically - before stepping up to the covered entry and lifting his hand to knock, but his motion was wasted as the door opened before he could touch it, and he was hauled inside, pulled into the embrace of strong, eager arms and kissed breathless before he got a chance to utter a single word, as Chad turned them both, and braced their bodies against the door as it closed behind them.

Kevin realized that he had not been kissed like that since . . . well . . . since the last time the exact same thing had happened, in broad daylight on a Pasadena street, as his sister had looked on - and smiled. He struggled a bit - but not very much. It had, after all, been a very long time, and Chad had forgotten nothing about how to kiss a man as he deserved to be kissed.

When the actor finally pulled back to study the face of one he now knew he should have loved when he had the right and opportunity to do so, his eyes were filled with affection - and regrets. "You have no idea," he said gently, "how long I've dreamed of being able to do that."

Kevin had to pause to clear his throat, and hoped that the look in his own eyes was not nearly as revealing as he feared it might be. "Wow!" He couldn't quite control his breathing. "I don't think you _ever_ kissed me like that - even when it would have been . . ."

"Appropriate?" Chad's tone was only mildly ironic; then it shifted to something almost bittersweet. "Welcomed?"

Kevin decided abruptly that he didn't want to explore whatever possibility his old friend was trying to propose. "Pleasant as the greeting was," he said softly, not unkindly, "it doesn't explain why you're here, or why you came to find me. And you did, didn't you? Come to find me, I mean."

Chad nodded, and turned away to walk to the bar where a bottle of Old Forester Birthday Bourbon waited on a tray with two shot glasses. "Not originally, of course. I came here, looking for a refuge against the paparazzi, when I had a few days between shoots. But you . . ." He poured out two stiff shots of amber liquid, and turned to study Kevin's face. "Finding you was the unexpected bonus. And I almost didn't. If I'd looked away at just the wrong moment, I never would have seen you at all. And even when I did see you, it was just a quick glimpse, so I wasn't really sure it was you." He leaned on the bar and pushed a glass toward Kevin. "I even considered just . . . letting it go. Almost convinced myself that I couldn't possibly be that lucky. But . . ." He smiled and downed his whiskey in one gulp. "I couldn't quite give up the chance. And then, of course, it was simply a matter of asking the right person, to find out that one Kevin Wynter - the new bartender at the town pub - was the guy who'd just gone racing out of the parking lot on his big, bad Harley."

Kevin straddled the stool at the bar and reached for his glass, only to find himself once again mesmerized by the look in glowing blue eyes. "Kevin Walker . . . on a Harley! It boggles the mind." Chad's smile was radiant.

"How long have you known?"

"It was a few weeks ago," the actor answered. "And I tried to call you, but the lady at the pub said that you weren't available, and she wasn't sure when you'd be back. I'm pretty sure she was lying, or - at least - covering your tracks for you, but I had to get back to the set the next day, and I've had a few other things scheduled since. This was my first chance to come back, and see for myself."

Kevin took a slow sip of his drink, as he felt something lock up inside his chest - something cold and harsh. "And have you . . . did you . . ."

"Stop, Kevin!" said Chad, moving around the bar and reaching out to brace a gentle hand on the nape of Kevin's neck. "I never said a word. To anyone. I wouldn't do that to you, no matter how wrong I might think you are about what you've decided to do. Whether I agree or not, it's your choice to make."

"Then why . . ."

"Because you don't have all the facts, and you shouldn't make a decision that changes your whole life, until you know it all."

Kevin took a deep breath. "All right then. Tell me, Chad. Tell me what I don't know."

Chad sighed, and moved to stand beside the fireplace, where embers still glowed bright against piles of ash. "Okay. For the moment, let's forget all about the Walker family and all its baggage. Let's even forget about the boy-toy/eye candy who managed to become the love of your life. Let's concentrate, instead, on one ambitious, self-centered, greedy young woman, who saw a chance to make a nice chunk of change for herself and to feather her own nest while making sure that some fairly powerful people would be forever in her debt. Does that sound like someone you know?"

Kevin's smile was ironic. "I've spend most of my life around politicians and power-brokers," he answered. "It sounds like almost everybody I know."

Chad nodded. "But this is someone you had good reason to get to know extremely well. Someone your beloved husband trusted with his life, and - more importantly - with the most important thing in _your_ life."

Kevin frowned. "I'm sorry, but I don't . . ." Then he went silent, as an image formed in his mind, at the exact same instant when a block of ice seemed to swell around his heart. "Michelle. You're talking about Michelle."

"I am indeed."

"But why . . . what do you mean? What did she . . ."

"Michelle disappeared out of your life, didn't she? With a phone call, and a quick 'Sorry about that, Guys. Miscarriage and all that. Too bad, so sad. See ya.' End of story. Right?"

Kevin could only nod, could only wonder why he was suddenly sure he couldn't speak a single word, even if his life depended on it.

Chad came forward again, and stepped close, bracing his arms against Kevin's shoulders. "Wrong."

"What . . ." Kevin had to pause, and clear his throat and start again. "What do you mean?"

"What I mean, my dear old love, is that it didn't happen that way. Yes, she went away - to New York, I heard. And yes, she led you to believe that she lost the baby. Only, she didn't. She ran, all right. But not alone. It was all a lie, Kevin. She took what should have been yours. She took your money, and she took your trust, and then; then she took your son."

"How do you . . ."

"Because I saw him. I saw him with her, and it was obvious, Kevin. There was no way she could deny whose son he was."

Kevin felt the world shift under him, as blinding pain exploded within him - pain as intense and unbearable as anything he'd ever endured - and he was only aware that he had tried to rise to his feet and failed completely when he found himself on his knees in Chad's arms.

"Why would she do that?" he moaned. "How could she . . ."

Chad held him, and stroked gentle fingers through his hair. "I don't know, Darlin'. I can't imagine what you must be feeling."

Kevin looked up then, hearing something in his old lover's voice that he could not quite identify. "What else?" he asked, knowing that he had to ask, but knowing, just as well, that he might not like the answer he would get. "What aren't you saying?"

"Kevin, I . . ."

"Tell me."

Chad sighed. "I don't know anything for sure. It's just . . ."

"Just what?"

"She's back in LA, and she's . . . "

Kevin stood quickly. "She came back. She brought our baby back, and . . ."

"Kevin . . ."

"I have to go back," Kevin said quickly, rising and starting toward the door. "If Scotty . . . It would kill him, Chad. If he . . ."

"Kevin, stop."

"No. I won't let him go through that alone. I won't . . ."

"I think . . ." Chad took a deep breath, and spoke reluctantly, but firmly. "I think he already did, Kevin. I think he knows. I think she came back . . . to tell him."

Kevin went very still. Even his heart seemed suddenly silent, as he pondered what the words could possibly mean.

Then he breathed again, but knew immediately that something was different - knew that, in the space between one heartbeat and the next, reality had shifted and left him in a cold, new world in which he had no place, and he wondered if there would ever come a time when he would be right in assuming that he couldn't possibly hurt any more than he already did.

Somehow, he knew better.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

tbc


	11. Songs of Summers Lost

Broken Mirrors

Chapter 11: Songs of Summers Lost

 

_And in my heart there stirs a quiet pain_  
 _For unremembered lads that not again_  
 _Will turn to me at midnight with a cry._  
 _Thus in winter stands the lonely tree,_  
 _Nor knows what birds have vanished one by one,_  
 _Yet knows its boughs more silent than before:_  
 _I cannot say what loves have come and gone,_  
 _I only know that summer sang in me_  
 _A little while, that in me sings no more._

\-- _Sonnet XLIII_ \- Edna St. Vincent Millay

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

They had all tried to pretend that it didn't matter - that time had not shifted into a new dimension at that one critical juncture - but they hadn't quite managed to pull it off.

Even Paige, still glowing and pristine, wrapped up within the innocent splendor of childhood, could not avoid that brutal truth.

They had all been deprived of the gift of not knowing.

Scotty had a son - a child of his own loins; the child that should have been the living embodiment of a beautiful union, a marriage that should have bound two souls into eternity, but was now nothing more than a shattered memory. A child shared by two parents. Just not . . . the right parents.

"How long have you known?"

Strangely, it was neither Sarah nor Nora who asked the question. It was Saul, and, somehow, it was even more painful for the origin of the inquiry.

"Just a few days," Scotty answered, bracing his back against the serving bar in the newly-converted private salon - the one he almost never entered. He had, however, entered voluntarily this time, knowing that this was the right place to have this conversation, whether he liked it or not. There was no comfort to be found - anywhere - and that seemed appropriate, to both the place and the moment.

The brunch participants had all departed quickly, having thoroughly enjoyed the food and the camaraderie, but all sensing - somehow - that lingering would not be a good idea. The looks on the faces of the Walker family members had been cordial enough, but just slightly off, somehow; just slightly perturbed - perturbed enough to discourage curiosity or questions.

Nora, in particular, seemed almost spellbound, as she continued to stare at the face of the little boy who was now happily seated in a high chair, being fed spoonfuls of luscious pancakes dripping with amber syrup by a girl who would have been - should have been - familiar to him; his cousin, in a different reality.

"I never agreed to this." That was Michelle, protesting, but too little, too late at this point, who had looked as if she were on the verge of bolting as the Walkers had first approached, their eyes riveted to the child braced against her body. Scotty had almost been surprised that she had not actually done so, but then he'd realized the truth. No way could she have run far enough or fast enough to escape the focus of this relentless group; even if she'd managed to evade the rest, Sarah would have run her down, pursuing with the determination of a dreadnought.

Strangely, though each family member appeared devastated, it was Sarah that seemed most affected, most horror-stricken.

She had said very little, but her eyes shouted volumes. Still, she'd spoken only once - uttered only seven words.

"How could you do this to them?"

She did not, of course, alter the words - did not actually substitute "to him" for "to them", but everyone in the room heard it anyway.

Michelle - wisely - had attempted no answer, correctly identifying the emotion flaring in Sarah's eyes as rage, rapidly evolving into something even more frightening.

"He has your eyes, Scotty," said Nora, almost managing to control the tremor in her voice. Then she looked up, and there was no way he could avoid identifying the terrible pain in her eyes. "Obviously, there's a story here - one that we haven't heard. Which raises another issue, greater even than _our_ ignorance."

"Nora . . ."

But the matriarch of the Walker clan was not going to be sidetracked by an apology, no matter how sincere. "Did _he_ know?" Her words were rimed with pure ice. "Is that what really drove him away?"

Scotty felt his strength fail him as he staggered and dropped into a chair. "How could you think that?" he gasped. 

"How could I not?" she retorted, and even Saul, who had known his sister all her life, had never imagined that she could express such outrage, thick with menace, with such a simple question. "My son is gone," she continued relentlessly, "and yet, here sits yours - the one who was meant to complete your family, _his_ family. What else am I supposed to think?"

"Nora, I didn't . . ."

"Scotty didn't know," said Michelle abruptly, as she stepped forward and moved to lift the little boy, who was the focus of every eye, from his place in the high chair.

But it was not going to be that easy, and she took a deep breath as she realized that she should have known better. Both Sarah and Saul moved to intervene, but it was Nora's voice that actually caused her to go cold and still.

"Stop right there, young woman," snapped the family matriarch. "If you think I won't call in the law, in order to get this sorted, think again. And if you think the Walker family name doesn't carry enough political clout around here to give you more trouble than you can imagine, then you're not nearly as smart as you think you are." She paused then, and looked up to study Scotty's face. "As for what Scotty did or did not know . . . that's a question that will bear discussion, later. But for now, I want to know how this happened. What did you do?"

Michelle turned to Scotty, looking for - hoping to find - some kind of reprieve, but understood immediately that there was none to be had. His affection for her - whatever might be left of it - wouldn't save her now.

"I need a drink," she said, as she settled into a chair across the table from her old friend, but when he moved as if to grab a pitcher of the fruity libation which had been served to the brunch guests, she shook her head sharply. "A real drink," she snapped.

After a brief hesitation Scotty nodded to Saul, who went to the bar to retrieve a bottle of Jack Daniel's Old No. 7 whiskey, along with a tray of glasses. When he returned, he didn't ask; he simply poured and distributed to everyone around the table, except Paige, of course.

It was an accurate measure of Nora's distress that she tossed back the generous shot in one gulp. Then she set the glass down with a hard thud and studied Michelle's face with a hard glare. "What did you do?" she repeated.

Michelle finished her drink quickly and grabbed the bottle to pour another before speaking. "You have to understand," she said finally. "I never meant to . . . to hurt anyone. I never meant to take advantage. It was just . . . I just couldn't do it. I found . . . he meant too much to me."

"Um, hmm." That was Sarah, also grateful for the emotional boost of the bourbon. "And when - exactly - did you discover this maternal devotion? I mean, it had to be before he was born, didn't it? Very early in the pregnancy, in fact, because you managed to disappear before you were even showing. That's pretty quick to develop such an attachment, isn't it?"

"You've got kids," Michelle retorted. "When did you?"

Sarah's smile was cold and smug. "Ah, but I didn't have to develop those feelings, did I? I had them from the beginning, because they were _my_ children, my flesh and blood growing inside me. But for you? Correct me if I'm wrong, but this was a business deal, wasn't it? From the beginning, it was a way for you to earn money - to make a big profit by doing a favor for a friend. Right?'

"Yeah, okay, it was, but . . ."

"And yet . . ." That was Nora, inserting herself into the conversation. "Somehow, between one day and the next, you decided that you'd fallen in love with the child growing inside you and simply couldn't part with it. One day, when you'd already been compensated - generously. Did you suddenly realize that there might be other ways for you to use the situation to your advantage, Michelle? That maybe a real baby, fully formed and beautiful, would give you terrific leverage to use against . . ."

"No! No, I didn't. I just wanted . . . I just . . ."

"Wanted what?"

Michelle, who had - until that moment - managed to maintain some degree of control and exude some small expression of impatience, was suddenly stark white and immobile. There was no mistaking the cold menace in Scotty's voice. "They're right, you know. You don't just fall in love with an unborn child between one breath and the next and decide that you just can't live without it. You were barely three months pregnant when we got the call - the call that . . . " He paused and fought to swallow around the lump in his throat. "The call that destroyed us." The note of finality in his voice was unmistakable, and when he looked up and met her eyes, she could hardly bare to read the malice she saw there. "You planned this, didn't you? All along, you planned . . ."

"No! Why would I do that? You think I _wanted_ a child? Why would I . . ."

"Not a child," said Sarah suddenly, suspicion blossoming into certainty. "It wasn't a child you wanted. It was Scotty."

"Don't be ridiculous," Michelle replied. "I know what Scotty is. Who better? I've always known. So why would I . . ."

"Leverage." Again, no mistaking that voice, or the complete certainty it carried. Scotty leaned forward, almost invading her personal space. Almost, but not quite. "Tell me something, Old Friend. Did I ever know you at all? Did you . . ."

Michelle stood quickly. "I'm not going to sit here and listen to this shit. If you . . ."

"Yes. You are."

And, once more, there was no mistaking that voice. It was, after all, known around the world, on every news network or political broadcast channel; it also carried an unmistakable note of authority. Kitty Walker spoke with confidence, in the certainty that she wielded the political clout to back it up.

She had been unable to attend Paige's brunch, choosing instead to offer up a generous pledge of support. She had, in fact, been scheduled to be on a plane back to DC earlier in the day, but a minor local political snafu had delayed her, and now she was glad she had not departed on time. This was her place for now, here in the midst of primary Walker family business, and she would not willingly give up her part in it. Having rushed over after receiving Sarah's frantic call, she took a place beside her mother, spared a moment to meet Scotty's gaze with a look that promised discussion - and possible consequences - later, before turning to regard the pseudo-mother of her brother-in-law's son with no effort to disguise the raw contempt simmering in her eyes.

There was no trace of hesitation or uncertainty in her tone when she spoke. "Let's hear it, Michelle. The truth, now - without embroidery this time. Apparently, things didn't quite work out the way you planned in New York. That _is_ why you're here, isn't it? And please don't insult us by pretending that you don't know what I'm talking about. It took one phone call to my resources to find out about your current circumstances, so don't bother with the act. You're in debt up to your eyeballs, and you're scrambling to avoid bankruptcy, so you come running back to LA, where you can use the leverage you obtained by breaking my brother's heart. Otherwise, you wouldn't be here."

"No. That's not true. I wouldn't do that. I . . . I didn't know how I'd feel about the baby, when I agreed to be the surrogate. I didn't realize . . . Scotty, tell them. You know me. You know I wouldn't . . ."

"No." Scotty's response was harsh and sharp. "The person I knew . . . the person I _thought_ I knew wouldn't have done this to me." His eyes met hers, and she flinched away from the despair she read there. "Do you understand what you did . . . to us? To _him_?"

Kitty was not going to allow any digression or emotional appeal. "And this . . . passionate attachment formed in . . . what? A matter of a few days, wasn't it, between the last time you spent an evening with Scotty and Kevin, when they were still recovering from the accident and trying to come to terms with what happened, and the night when you called to tell them how devastated you were to have lost the baby. So devastated that you just couldn't stand to face them, so you were going to New York. To grieve, and to put the past behind you. That _was_ what you told them, wasn't it?'

Michelle didn't answer, but Scotty did. "That was it - almost verbatim." He dropped his face into his hands, refusing to meet the eyes of his oldest friend. "You walked away and left us to believe that our child . . . our baby was lost. You took away . . ." He paused, struggling for breath - and words. "You took away our hope - our last chance to salvage something from our lives."

Michelle stood quickly. "I don't have to sit here and take this," she snapped. "The law isn't going to force me to . . ."

"Do you really want to go there?" That was Kitty again, with no trace of doubt in her tone. "You might assume that Scotty - out of the goodness of his heart and because of your history - would let you walk away, without consequences." Then she stood and moved deliberately into Michelle's personal space. "But you're not dealing with Scotty any more, little girl. I move in circles that revolve around political power you can't even imagine, and I have absolutely no compunctions about using my resources. With one phone call, I can change your life - forever - and not for the better. Trust me when I tell you that your best bet - and your only chance for salvaging anything of your life - is to sit down and be very careful that you answer our questions truthfully, hiding nothing. Make no mistake about it, Honey. For what you did to my brother, I could ruin you. Now - sit down, and choose your words wisely."

Scotty sat in his chair and stared at his sister-in-law - the one who had always been his least favorite of the family, except maybe for Tommy, who sometimes didn't seem to qualify as family at all. He swallowed around the lump in his throat as he realized something - something, he was pretty sure, he should have known a long time ago, but had never really stopped to understand. Whatever else Kitty Walker might be - political pundit, ultra-conservative extremist, right-wing mover and shaker, and yes, even self-centered egotist - she was one thing more, and it was, at this moment, the most important thing of all. She was the loving, protective big sister of Kevin Walker, and she was in the process of proving it, beyond all doubt.

Michelle would have had a better chance of surviving an encounter with a hungry Bengal tiger than coming out of this face-off intact.

Sitting as directed, clinching her hands in front of her, and pausing just long enough to direct a wistful glance toward the little boy who was still enjoying his pancakes and the attention of the cousin he'd never known, she did as she was told. She began to talk.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Despite her attempts to twist the facts and manipulate her listeners, it was not a complicated tale. Though she continued to claim that her actions were driven by an unexpected attachment to the baby growing within her - an attachment that seemed to form spontaneously, almost instantly, between one breath and the next - it was quickly obvious that a dawning awareness of how she might benefit from an association with the little boy and his biological parent had played a substantial role in her decision-making process. 

Michelle was not a romantic; she was, in fact, remarkably pragmatic in her life's philosophy; comfort and financial security were her keys to happiness, and her goals started and ended with being able to live where and as she pleased and do whatever she wanted. She had gone through a phase of allowing herself to believe in the happily-ever-after premise of romantic relationships, but too many affairs, ending too quickly and badly, had fostered a growing cynicism in her personal aspirations; she had, finally, concluded that marriage - in a happily-ever-after sense - was not a part of her future. Her own history and that of her family had convinced her that _any_ belief in enduring, romantic love was foolish. Thus, she'd decided, what was true for her would also prove true for her oldest, best friend.

Scotty and Kevin's marriage would fail, like everyone else's, and, when it did, she would be waiting in the wings, providing a perfect refuge and sufficient motivation for him to welcome her back into his life and give her the place and position she deserved.

Their reunion would not, of course, be sexual, but that hardly mattered. Sex was always available, whenever and wherever one required it.

Scotty, in the process of evaluating the truthfulness - or lack thereof - of her story slowly grew to believe that she had, in fact, grown to love Daniel, but that had not been a part of the initial decision process.

Michelle had seen an opportunity to better her circumstances, and she had taken it. The baby had been an insurance policy, an adjunct to the generous payment she'd already received for surrogacy - a perfect example of having her cake, and eating it too.

It was the perfect definition of complete betrayal.

In the end, it was one salient fact that saved her from suffering the most rigorous consequences - legal and otherwise - for her treachery; one fact that no one could deny. No matter how specious the origin of the bond between her and the child who was the son of Scotty Wandell, the bond was quite real, as evidenced by the fact that the little boy, on growing tired and sleepy, cried for the woman he knew as his mother and, in his weariness, refused to be comforted by anyone else.

Even so, it was a near thing. Both Kitty and Sarah were angry enough and outraged enough to advocate removing the child from her life completely. But it was Scotty - with Nora's support - who ultimately stepped in to prevent that. Not for Michelle's sake. Even Scotty, regardless of the depth and duration of their relationship, would have been willing to see her suffer for her sins, but for Daniel's sake, he could not allow it, and neither could Nora. 

This child - this beautiful child - was his son and her grandson, no matter what complications there might be concerning the legality of the relationship; this was the son that Kevin should have had, and Nora would not allow him to be hurt, no matter how much she believed that depriving the conniving bitch of her connection to the child would be a demonstration of justice in its most perfect form.

Thus, when the initial confrontation was finished, it was Saul, at Nora's suggestion, who stepped forward and escorted Michelle to a semi-private table in the rear corner of the restaurant, with little Daniel asleep against her shoulder, as the Walker family stood aside and watched them settle there.

Watched - but not idly, or complacently. It might be Sunday - the American day of rest - but there were no closed doors to those who wielded the kind of political power instantly available to the widow of a powerful U. S. senator, especially one as knowledgeable and politically active as Kitty Walker, who might have dropped the McAllister from her official name but had relinquished nothing of her status. 

In addition, there were many in the legal community who had counted Kevin Walker among their best friends and closest associates, just as there were many prominent social leaders with intimate connections to charitable organizations that owed huge debts of gratitude to the matriarch of the Walker clan. Given the influence of those groups, there was very little that couldn't be accomplished, no matter how many offices might be closed and unmanned on any given day. Thus, discussions among the various family members - some that included Scotty and some that, rather pointedly, did not - were followed by telephone calls to a number of valuable contacts and helpful sources.

At the same time, Sara settled alone at the bar, nursing a glass of wine and idly folding and refolding a napkin, trying to realign a world gone suddenly out of kilter, and wondering what it was - aside from the obvious - that was tugging at her sub-conscious mind, insisting that something - again, beyond the obvious - was not as it should be. Something was here that didn't belong here, but she couldn't quite figure out what it might be.

_How does existence shatter and reform into a completely new shape in a matter of minutes?_

She ultimately gave up on trying to make order out of chaos and poured herself another glass of wine.

In the space of a few hours, the prospects of life had shifted dramatically for Michelle McGregor, who had walked into the cafe that morning, believing that she held the trump card in any negotiations that might take place between herself and the father of the little boy to whom she had given birth.

She sat at her secluded table, trying to appear composed, with Daniel nestled against her, and waited while Scotty spent a few minutes conferring with his in-laws. The conference did not take long, and no one who participated in it suffered any illusion that anything was settled. The confrontations had barely begun, and Scotty did not even try to delude himself. The road ahead would not be an easy one, and he could not be sure that he would retain his current place within the family or the loyalty of its members. But, for the moment, that issue was secondary.

It was time to resolve a more immediate question, and it took only a few words - mostly from Kitty, but with Nora chiming in as well - to provide him with the information he needed in order to decide how to proceed.

He hesitated briefly, allowing himself a few moments to collect his scattered thoughts, and felt a brief frisson of unease, as something - something ephemeral, not quite noticed - imposed on his concentration; something he could not quite place; something peripheral, trying to interrupt his focus, but not quite solid enough to succeed; an image, a silhouette, a face barely glimpsed. Something . . .

Finally, he had to let it go. Whatever it was that was attempting to interrupt his train of thought would simply have to wait. What demanded his immediate attention was much more important than any stray detail.

When he arrived to take a seat at the table, he paused for a moment to gaze down into the beautiful face of his son, while Michelle tried to steady her breathing and summon up sufficient strength to endure what lay ahead.

"You can't do this to me," she said as he settled across from her. "I won't let you . . ."

"Don't!" he interrupted. "Just don't. We're way past that, and if you think you're not going to have to face the consequences for your actions, you're wrong." His voice was hard and cold. "If I were the only one you had to deal with, you probably think you could use our friendship to manipulate me into letting you have everything your own way. And you might even have been right - once. But that was before your actions had consequences, Michelle. While it's true that the blame for the collapse of my marriage falls squarely on me, the truth is that losing . . . " He paused to take a deep breath. "Losing our baby was one of the things that turned our world upside down. I don't know for sure that the same thing wouldn't have happened, even if you'd lived up to our agreement, but I . . ."

"You can't be serious," she snapped. "You're going to blame _me_ for your fuck up? You're going to . . ."

"No. I'm fully responsible for what I did. But what you did - or rather what you failed to do - created chaos in our lives. Everything that had been so right, so beautiful, just . . . collapsed around our ears. And we . . . we lost our way. But none of that is what matters right now. What _does_ matter is that you picked the wrong family to fuck with." It was not lost on her that Scotty had just used a word that she had never heard him use before, not once in all the years she'd known him. When he continued, she couldn't fail to recognize the sheer determination in his voice. " _I_ might qualify as a perfect pushover, but the Walkers are not going to stand by while you waltz away with our son. With _Kevin's_ son."

"He's not . . ."

" _He is_."

Michelle recoiled in shock, stunned by the intensity of his anger.

He paused briefly, and when he went on, he was calmer, but no less cold. "So here's the bottom line, Old Friend. If Daniel is as important to you as you claim, and if you want to have any part in his life from now on, you'll choose your words and your actions very carefully. Or you'll wind up in court, from now until forever, and possibly even in jail."

"You can't . . ."

"Maybe I can't," he interrupted, "but it won't be me you'll be dealing with. Not on my own anyway. Do you really want to face off with the Walker family, and the retinue of legal officials, power-brokers, and financial major leaguers that they can call on?"

She managed a lopsided smile. "That won't happen. I know you too well, and . . ."

"You don't know me at all." Again, there was no arguing with the absolute certainty in his tone. "You did - once. But everything is different now, Michelle. Losing Kevin . . ." He paused, struggling to find the words. "Losing Kevin cost me everything that was important in my life - everything that I ever loved. And you don't live through that without changing, becoming a different person. And now - now this beautiful little boy is the only thing in the world that still matters to me. Both because he is _my_ son - no matter how you define it - and because he's a part of the man who was the heart of me. Now, you tell me you love him, and you want to be a part of his life, and I'm prepared to allow that. But only on my terms."

"I won't agree . . ."

"I don't care whether you agree or not," he continued. "You are _not_ his mother."

"Yes, I . . ."

"No." He said, his voice soft but deadly. "You're not. In clinical terms, you're simply the incubator that sustained him until he was capable of surviving on his own, and if you persist in fighting this, that's all you'll ever be."

"But he loves me. He _needs_ me."

Scotty poured himself a hefty portion of Scotch and drained it quickly. Then he looked her squarely in the eye and spoke four words that she wanted to dispute - but couldn't. "He'll get over it." 

"But . . ."

"At his age," Scotty continued, ignoring her attempt to interrupt, "it'll be a matter of days. Maybe even hours. Do you really think you can compete against the kind of mothering he'll enjoy under the care of Nora Walker?"

Finally, ultimately, when he fell silent and waited for her response, she found that she couldn't think of anything to say, any argument to offer on her own behalf. After a wordless interlude, she took a deep breath. "Then tell me what you want - what's going to happen."

"Tomorrow," he replied, "we're going to a judge, and I will get full custody of my son, and, if you're prepared to accept that, I'll agree to reasonable visitation rights for you, but only - only in my presence. Given your history, I don't think it's unreasonable to require that you to agree to that condition. Right?"

"But . . ."

"No buts. Agree, or prepare to fight, and understand this, up front. You - will - lose!"

Finally, she nodded. "And then? What will happen to me? Things are . . . rough, and I . . . "

But she fell silent as she read his reaction in eyes flecked with blue ice. Whatever her situation might be, whatever hardships she might endure, Scotty - Scotty of the soft heart, who had always been the most generous, charitable person she'd ever known - did not care; would never care again.

That's what her treachery had done for her.

Michelle clinched her fists tightly in her lap and looked up, apparently seeking some escape route, some way to avoid what was becoming inevitable. But all she saw when she raised her eyes was a crowd of strangers, many trying not to betray their avid interest in matters which should have remained private, inspiring her to wonder what tabloid headlines might be screaming in days to follow. Beyond that, there were only the faces of the Walker women, each more determined than the last, with Kitty Walker bringing up the rear, completely indomitable.

"All right," she agreed finally. "Tomorrow, I'll bring him to . . ."

"No. He stays with me. Today."

"But he'll be scared, Scotty. He'll . . ."

Scotty's only response was to lift one hand in a gesture to signal Nora to approach. When she did, he greeted her with a gentle smile - a smile that asked forgiveness - and help. "Would you like to take your newest grandson home for a visit, Nora? I'll send someone to pick up a suitable car seat, and then you and he can take some time to get acquainted."

Nora didn't hesitate, as she leaned forward to gaze down at the beautiful child sleeping with his head tucked against Michelle's body. "I'd love to. That sounds like a perfect Sunday to me. Or even better, perhaps an afternoon at Disneyland. Justin's already on his way, so he'll be delighted to tag along." She paused and deliberately met Michelle's gaze with a cold, implacable stare. "To get to know his nephew, and to make certain that no one bothers us."

"You're a mother," whispered Michelle, struggling to control the tears rising in her eyes. "How can you . . ."

"Because," Nora replied steadily, "I'm a mother, and I will never forgive what you did - to _my_ child - or let anything bad happen to _this_ one."

Ultimately, it was Saul who escorted the shaky young woman to her car, in order to retrieve the diaper bag that contained everything Daniel would need for the day and to watch and make sure that Michelle actually drove away, after a futile attempt to get the older man to listen to her pleas for sympathy. She was weeping openly as she pulled out of the parking lot, and Saul spent a moment - a very quick moment - hoping that she'd gain enough control of herself to avoid an accident. That, however, was the only semi-humane feeling he managed to dredge up for her, as he remembered everything she had cost the people he loved. 

Meanwhile, Scotty dispatched a café staff member to the local Target to purchase an appropriate car seat, while Sara and Kitty organized a shopping trip to a nearby mall where Baby Gap, OshKosh B'Gosh, and Gymboree had shops.

It was a hectic hour, but Scotty was semi-grateful for the hubbub as it allowed him to avoid indulging in bouts of anxiety.

He was a father. Just days earlier, he had believed he would never have that privilege, that his last chance for parenting had vanished, along with the man who should have been there to share the adventure.

And now - he looked down at the child who was snuggled tight in his lap, his tiny face filled with uncertainty, but slowly relaxing under the gentle stroking of his father's hands and the loving, running commentary of his grandmother who was entertaining him with a game of pat-a-cake.

In the ultra-technical, super-sophisticated, stratospheric culture of southern California, there were many fields of expertise which would remain forever beyond the scope of Nora Walker, but winning the heart and mind of a child would never be one of them. She had known her new grandson for less than two hours, but she was already becoming a major focal point of his existence.

Thus, while Sara, Kitty, and Paige prepared to indulge themselves in a no-holds-barred shopping spree, to furnish a new personal environment for their newest family member, Nora got him ready for an afternoon of pure joy - the kind that only happens in a Disney-style playground, as Scotty looked on with a wistful smile, longing to be a part of the celebration, but not sure of his place in it.

Until his mother-in-law turned to him and reached out to touch his face. "Why are you just standing there?" she asked softly. "You can't go to Disneyland wearing a chef's apron and a toque. Get your jacket."

Scotty drew a deep, shaky breath. "I wasn't sure you'd want . . ."

But Nora was not in the frame of mind for a deep discussion of guilt and regrets. "Don't be silly, Scotty. He's my grandson, and you're his father, and whatever obstacles we may yet face, nothing changes that. So stop wasting time, and let's go. It's November, you know, and even Disneyland has an occasional chilly moment."

"But I can't just walk out, you know. I have work to do, respon . . ."

"And what am I?" demanded Saul. "Last time I looked, I was a partner here, and fully capable of running the show for a while."

"But, but what about later? I have to fix up a place for him, and . . ."

Nora smiled. "If you're lucky, you might manage get in a word or two on how to prepare a home for him. But I know my daughters, and so do you. How much help do you think they're going to need - or accept - in furnishing a room for him, and making sure he has every toy available from Toys R Us? Meanwhile, we take him out so we can get better acquainted. You have the right to find out if he prefers ice cream or cotton candy. If he likes chocolate or strawberry, grapes or apples, Coke or Pepsi, or . . . whatever. You need to get to know him, and, more importantly, he needs to get to know you. You're going to be his anchor, Scotty. We'll all help, of course, but it's you he's going to need most. For now anyway."

Scotty looked down, and tried to suppress the tears rising in his eyes. "But it's not right, Nora. Not like this. Not without . . ."

"I know," she said quickly, lifting one hand to touch his face and sparing him the necessity of speaking the name that was now so painful for him. "And you're right; it's not. But we can't fix that right now. We won't give up - ever. But for this moment, all we can do is make sure this child is cared for and happy and healthy - and ready to meet his other dad when he comes home."

Neither was prepared to contemplate the possibility that the homecoming might prove to be nothing more than wishful thinking. Not yet anyway.

Scotty looked down then and found his baby boy looking up at him, his lower lip trembling slightly as he tried to navigate through the changes happening around him. And that was that - all he needed to make him fall to his knees and gather his son to his chest. Nora, he thought, was right, but she was also wrong. It wasn't Scotty who would be the anchorage; it was Daniel who would provide the safe port in the storm, where they could be together and await the return of the only other person in the world who belonged there with them.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Contrary to Saul's fleeting - though relatively sincere - wishes, Michelle found that she could not make it very far from the café before finding a place to pull over and allow herself time to recover.

_How had it gone so wrong, so quickly?_

The small parking lot she'd chosen fronted on a sporting goods store, closed on Sunday, so she was alone and felt no need to resist the urge to let the tears flow as they would. 

She was absolutely alone - for the first time in a very long time - with no one to comfort her. No tiny, warm hand to clasp in her own; no small voice to call her, "Mama". No little body to snuggle against her and remind her that she had a purpose in life, that she was loved and needed.

She drew a deep breath, and tried to calm her thoughts.

Yes. In the beginning, she had failed to live up to the terms of her agreement with Scotty and his husband because . . . because she'd seen an opportunity for her own advancement. As much as she'd wanted to deny that - and actually _had_ denied it in her own mind - there was ultimately no way to avoid the truth of it. But . . . but it had only been true in the beginning, before Daniel had become a part of her life. Whatever her original motives had been, she had come to love the child intensely, as much as if he had been biologically her own.

And that should have counted for something, she told herself. She had loved and cared for Scotty's son, as if he'd been her son too, and, when she would have come forward to offer her oldest friend a new reason for existing, a purpose to replace the man he'd lost, he had cast her aside and left her with this gaping hole in her life. Not to mention the fact that she was in dire financial straights, with no prospects for building any kind of security for herself, all of which could have been avoided if he'd only been willing to listen to reason.

They could have built a good life together; Scotty and his spectacularly successful café and his exploding gastronomic reputation; Daniel, his biological son and her chosen child; and her, with all her untapped and so-far unrecognized potential. It would not have mattered at all that the two principals were not in love with each other; they would have both loved Daniel, and that would have been enough. And, of course, they'd both have been free to indulge any sexual desires, with anyone they might choose in any way they might want, discretion being the only requirement.

An ideal existence, until Scotty had to go and fuck it up - him and Kevin's God-damned family!

Suddenly, her sadness faded, to be replaced with something much stronger. If he thought he was going to get away with this . . .

So intent was she on the resentment rising in her mind and stirring intimations of retaliatory actions that she momentarily forgot her surroundings and was startled by a knock on her window.

Warily, she turned and looked up into a young face, winsome and blond, almost pretty and vaguely familiar, regarding her with a smile that contained just a nuance of conspiracy and more than a trace of sympathy, which was as welcome as the promise of water in a desert setting.

_Now, who was this? And what could he possibly want?_

She debated ignoring the knock and simply driving away, but . . . it _was_ a marvelously lovely face, with limpid blue eyes, framed by long, golden lashes, and it wasn't as if she was alone on some dark deserted road in the middle of the night. It was Sunday morning, and the sunlight was bright. And that smile was . . . intriguing.

Slowly, cautiously, she cracked her window - just enough to speak through.

"Can I help you?" she asked, skeptical but curious.

"I don't know," said the young blond, "but I think maybe I can help you. My name is Marcus Richter, and we have something in common, _vis a vis_ a certain chef and his extended family. Want to have a little chat?"

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

 

He thought it was probably a beautiful morning, so far as he could tell, judging by the subliminal signals to his senses. Or at least, it would have been beautiful, if he hadn't been suffering from the hangover of the century.

He groaned as he tried to roll over - tried being the operative word. Even his shoulders seemed loathe to obey the simplest commands, and the elementary action of opening his eyes and focusing on anything other than the pounding in his head seemed permanently beyond the realm of possibility.

So he remained still and silent and allowed his mind to wander where it would.

 _How long had it been?_ he asked himself. 

As a member of the Walker clan, it went without saying that he was a drinker - classifiable as more than moderate, but less than heavy. Mostly. Still, he had gone through the normal, typical late teen, early twenties, college-student stages, where a 24-hour binge was not all that uncommon. Mostly.

But that had been almost two decades in the past. He had, of course, been drunk since then, although only rarely to the stumbling, bumbling, unbalanced, falling-on-the-nearest-flat-surface-and-passing-out degree. And, for the most part, when he _had_ drunk himself into that kind of stupor, it had been in celebration of something - a graduation, a new job, a promotion, a successful seduction.

A proposal accepted.

But this was not the same; this was not a celebration.

This was devastation unlike anything he had ever known before.

_Never assume that nothing can hurt more than what you've already experienced, because life is always prepared to grab you by the balls and teach you better._

The thought was not a new one, was - in fact - old and familiar, but the lesson was one that had to be relearned on a regular basis. Apparently.

Wincing in anticipation of resurgent pain, he managed to open one eye and noted that the view was not what usually awaited him when he finally, reluctantly accepted the inevitability of morning.

_Where was . . ._

_Oh!_

A sudden shift of weight and a not-so-subtle warmth at his back answered one question, while raising another.

_What had he done?_

"Good morning, Sunshine."

Kevin closed his eye again and buried his head under a pillow, wondering how a voice that had seduced and charmed movie-goers and television watchers around the world could abrade so roughly against his eardrums. "You don't have to shout," he managed to mumble. "M' head is . . ."

"Still there," the voice continued, gentle but still rumbling. "Despite your best efforts to detach brain from body - chemically. Jesus, Kev! I haven't been that drunk since . . . Hell, I don't think I've _ever_ been that drunk."

Kevin remained still, loathe to move. Afraid to move. Afraid to acknowledge where he was, and what might have happened. 

When strong, beautifully muscled arms wrapped around him and pulled him back against a perfect, sculpted torso, he thought he should probably resist. But he didn't - couldn't - and the soft touch of moist lips against the nape of his neck, which should have offered comfort, only served to make him more certain that he was somewhere he shouldn't be, probably having done something he was sure to regret, once he was certain he'd actually done it.

"Stop!" It was only a whisper, but it had the desired - or not - result.

The arms relaxed, and the body behind him retreated slightly. But not very far.

"Chad," he said, finding it suddenly difficult to draw breath. "Did we . . ."

It wasn't often that Chad Barry found himself at a loss for words, but, for a moment, he hardly knew how to respond. "You don't remember?" 

Kevin frowned, wondering if what he heard in that soft voice was really heartbreak, or simply a product of his own imagination. "I'm sorry. I . . ."

"Don't be!" Chad moved quickly, tossing back a welter of blankets and rising with easy grace, pausing in a pool of sunlight to light a cigarette. "There's nothing to remember . . . or regret."

"So we didn't . . ."

Chad walked around the bed and sank to his knees to gaze into eyes that always startled him with the intensity of their color and the degree of emotion they could display. "Do you really think you wouldn't know it if I'd fucked you through the mattress? It stands to reason that, if your ass doesn't feel plundered, it wasn't."

Kevin mustered a small smile, noting how the morning light gilded perfect skin on a perfect body without a tan line anywhere in evidence. "Who's to say I was the one getting fucked?"

The actor's eyes widened as he sought - without success - to stifle a grin. "Yeah. Who's to say?"

"Hey!" Kevin said gently, one hand reaching out to caress morning stubble that served to enhance a sculpted jaw-line. "I'm sorry if I disappointed you. I just . . ."

Chad shrugged. "It's still early. Plenty of time to change your mind."

Kevin shifted, and glanced toward the window. "What time is it?"

"Almost ten, I think."

"Shit! I should be at work."

"No, you shouldn't. You called your boss yesterday and told her you'd be away for a couple of days. Remember?"

Kevin sighed. "Yesterday? What day is it?"

"It's Sunday, Baby. You're not shitting me, are you? You really don't remember."

Kevin sat up, noting absently that he was not quite as naked as his companion and wondering then if that was something he should be happy about. "I hardly remember anything at all," he answered. "Not since your big announcement."

Chad spent a moment studying the look on his old friend's face. "We haven't really talked about it, you know. And I'm willing to listen, if you want discuss it."

"What's to discuss? You wouldn't have told me if you weren't sure, so . . . nothing I say is going to change anything." He shifted then, and got to his feet, moving with great care to avoid detaching his throbbing head from his shoulders. As he managed to walk to the window, he noted the crisp beauty of the morning and wondered why it wasn't dark and dreary, as his heart insisted it should be. "My husband has a child - _the_ child that should have been ours. What else is there to say?"

Chad stood and walked up behind his old friend and wrapped him in a gentle embrace. "Still, we don't know the whole story, do we? Maybe . . ."

"You said you gave him a chance to come clean, and he dodged the question. Sounds pretty conclusive to me."

The actor watched as his companion winced against the purity of the morning sunlight. Dropping a kiss against the dark hair curling against the nape of that familiar neck, he raised his hands to apply gentle pressure to Kevin's temples, needing to do something - anything - to ease such obvious pain. "To be honest, I was pretty pissed off at him, so I wasn't very patient. I just . . . I wanted to deck him, Kevin. I wanted to make him bleed, and understand what a fool he'd been - what he'd sacrificed." He paused, and gently turned Kevin to face him. "I wanted him to realize that he'd given up something that a lot of people would die to have."

Kevin braced his hands against that perfect chest and couldn't help but notice - once more - that the body nestled against him was gloriously bare . . . and obviously eager and ready. "Chad," he whispered, "this is . . . it's not fair. To you. I can't . . ."

"Don't you dare!" The response was immediate and with no nuance of uncertainty. "I want you, Kevin. No point in denying that, given the degree of my . . . interest is impossible to hide. But I'm not going to let you apologize - for anything. I want you. I want to fuck you into next week, to remind you of what we once shared. I want to make love to you, and don't insult me by using your so-called marriage as an excuse. If you don't want me, then say so. I'm not fragile, you know. I can handle the rejection. But if you deny this, you deny it for yourself, because it's something _you_ don't want. Not for Scotty or any notion that you don't have the right. He forfeited any claim to your loyalty - first when he cheated on you, and second, when he made a new life for himself, with the child who was supposed to be yours."

"Don't, please!"

Chad wanted to say more, to offer more reasons, point out more rational thoughts and comfort, but couldn't ignore the broken quality of that beloved voice. Thus, he fell silent and stared for a moment into incredibly blue eyes, before turning to walk away. "Okay, then. I'll order breakfast, shall I?"

Kevin stood at the window, watching as a couple of squirrels played tag in the foliage of the towering birch tree that shaded the brick walkway, and wondered if anyone on staff had tumbled to the fact that Chad was not alone in his luxury cottage. Then he wondered if he should be alarmed at the possibility, but found that he just couldn't muster up enough energy to care.

So someone might catch a glimpse of him, or notice that his bike had been parked in the club's lot since Friday night. So what? What difference did it make? What difference did anything make?

He closed his eyes, and was immediately assailed by flickering images - imagined but no less painful for being the products of a fevered mind, rather than actual memory.

Scotty and Michelle - a couple - parents of the child that should have been . . .

"Chad!" he said suddenly, lifting one hand to indicate that he wasn't quite ready to have their morning interrupted; that breakfast could wait.

"What?"

Kevin's lips trembled as he tried on a tiny, tentative smile. "Just . . . stop. I don't want breakfast. First, I think . . . I want to work up an appetite."

Chad went very still, wondering if the soft note of seduction he detected in that velvet voice was real or nothing more than a reflection of his own desire. Thus, when he began to move back across the room, it was a slow, almost tentative process. Tentative, that is until Kevin bent abruptly to divest himself of the briefs which were the last article of clothing he wore.

At that point, Chad leapt forward and caught that familiar, freshly-bared body in strong, eager arms, and leaned forward to claim a mouth which had long been the focus of treasured memory. Then, abruptly, he laughed, enjoying the taste of Kevin too much to bother moving away in order to speak. "You know what, Stud Muffin? Much as I want to fuck you into tomorrow, the plain truth is that we both stink of booze and God only knows what else. I vote that we take this to the shower. Care to join me?"

Kevin offered no verbal response. Instead, he lifted his face to renew their kiss, hungry for the lips that sought to devour him, as he pushed himself forward against the body that was molded to his own, hot flesh against flesh, as he maneuvered to move them together toward the luxury bath. He did not think about what he was doing; did not want to think about anything, beyond the incredible flood of desire rising within him and a need too long denied - a need for new memories to replace those he could no longer bear to recall.

For Chad's part, he spared a thought to what this would do to his old friend - but it was very brief. He would not worry about consequences beyond the immediate now. Here, in this fragment of time, it only mattered that Kevin needed - needed to be held and cherished and desired, needed to be reassured and reminded that he was wanted and treasured. Needed someone to make love to him, to hold him, to claim him.

They would live in this moment, and let tomorrow, next week, next year . . . and forever take care of itself.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Despite the brilliance of the sunlight, the wind was cold as it swept down from the mountains and across the sculpted perfection of the golf club, and Greg Rowland wished that he'd taken the time to grab his jacket as he'd gone tearing out of the clubhouse when Mr. Ashe - golf pro, club manager, and all-around-pain-in-the-ass - had sent him to "see to the problem". 

Not that he minded taking care of the task at hand. Any excuse to pay a visit to the occupant of Bungalow 16 was welcome. Only he would prefer not to do so as the bearer of bad news.

On the other hand, since he was prepared to offer to repair what was broken - a task that would ordinarily fall to other staffers, if this little disaster had happened at any other time of the week - this might turn out to be a golden opportunity. Because it was Sunday morning, and most of the regular staff would not report in for several hours yet, it was up to him. He did not particularly relish the prospect of performing manual labor, but if it gained the attention and, possibly, the gratitude of Chad Barry, he thought he could deal with it, and smile in the process.

Of course, the actor would not be happy to learn that his classic Porsche had suffered a small mishap, but there was no help for it. Someone had to tell him that his left rear tire had gone flat, and someone had to step up and offer to change it for him. Then, perhaps that same someone might rate a few moments of private conversation, or even an invitation to come in and have a drink and visit for a while.

Or something.

It might prove to be a lovely morning after all.

Of course, there _was_ another small issue, which would need investigating once his present task was completed. He wasn't sure that anyone else among the club's staff had recognized the Harley that had been parked in the public lot for a couple of days, but he had. He had not mentioned it to anyone, of course, being fairly sure that doing so would raise the question of why he was so sure he could identify the owner.

Greg was very young, but he was neither naive nor stupid. He was well acquainted with the prevailing local attitude toward homosexuality - the so-called "gay agenda". This was certainly California, but it was a somewhat unique portion of the great liberal state, and anyone with something to hide moved cautiously beneath its radar. In most areas, the need for closets had become obsolete, but not here.

Thus, he would bide his time and limit any inquiry to personal phone calls or - perhaps - a casual visit to the pub, in his spare time.

Meanwhile . . .

He paused to adjust his collar and check his hair in his reflection in the beveled glass door-window before ringing the doorbell.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Chad Barry was busy remembering how much he'd always enjoyed the taste of Kevin's skin and devising new ways of expressing his appreciation as one hand explored the contours of a luscious backside while the other reached for the shower controls . . . when the doorbell rang.

"Fuck me!" he muttered, frustration and need making his voice hoarse, almost guttural.

Soft laughter erupted against his throat. "I thought that's what I was doing."

"Ignore it," replied the actor, finally managing to find the right handle and start a thick flow of water splashing against the marbled emerald tile of the over-sized shower enclosure.

Then the bell rang again, as Kevin lifted lips already swollen with passion to accept a more powerful kiss, which Chad was glad to initiate.

And the bell rang again.

The two men sighed together. "I think someone knows you're here," said Kevin, obviously reluctant to allow the interruption but forced to accept that there was probably no getting around it.

"They'll go away." Kiss resumed, deeper and harder than before.

And the bell rang again.

Chad went very still, both hands now firmly gripped around the sweet globes of Kevin's butt. "You wouldn't happen to have a gun in your pocket."

Kevin's laugh was rough. "What's a pocket?"

The actor reluctantly stepped back, grabbing a towel to wrap around his waist as he moved toward the door. "Stay right there. Don't move."

Kevin stood for a moment under the wonderful warmth of the cascading water, debating whether to stay there and enjoy the lush sensation or step back and check out who had interrupted their romantic tryst. It was a near thing; the sluice of the water was seductive, but, in the end, curiosity got the better of him, and he moved to the door, taking care to be very quiet and discreet as he took a quick peek toward the front of the cottage.

And that was all it took. He could see nothing of the person who was standing outside the front door except a clearly defined shadow, solidly framed against a flutter of wind-tossed foliage - a masculine silhouette, tall, spiky hair, long graceful neck, slightly upturned nose . . .

Kevin suddenly discovered that his knees would not support him, as he braced himself against the mosaic tiled wall and slid to the floor.

He could hear faint scraps of conversation - not enough to identify the new arrival, but sufficient to let him understand that the shadow he'd glimpsed was _not_ the person he'd initially believed it to be. But he found that it didn't matter.

The fleeting reminder had been enough - or too much.

_What the hell was this? What had he almost done - and why? Rebellion, revenge . . . payback? Was that what his life had become?_

When Chad came rushing back into the room, it was obvious that his intention was to make up for lost time, to resume what had been so rudely interrupted. But one look at the face of his old friend was enough to tell him that any hope of that had been irretrievably lost.

Like so much else of late.

He realized immediately that any nuance of sexual arousal was suddenly immaterial.

With a mental note to make sure that a certain club staff member would later have certain rigorous and very personal tasks to perform - to make up for opportunities lost - he knelt and wrapped his arms around Kevin and tried to find a way to repair what was broken. He had been friends with Kevin Walker for a long time and had always believed him to be the strongest man he'd ever known. Now, he thought, it was time for him to step up and help his companion to find that strength within himself - to refind what was lost.

"Kevin," he said gently, using his thumb to wipe away the tears that welled in storm-blue eyes, "you can't go on like this. You can't just sit back and take it. You have to . . ."

"I know!" It was a desperate admission - an unwanted truth. Then the voice grew softer, more resigned. "I have to go back. I have to see . . . for myself."

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

tbc


	12. Layers of Lifetimes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this has taken a while. Sometimes, the muse goes silent for a while. Fortunately, she always speaks again, sooner or later. Only sometimes, it's later. Anyway, thanks to those who have waited. I hope it doesn't disappoint.

Broken Mirrors

Chapter 12: Layers of Lifetimes

 _The one glance_  
_that set life alight_  
_is two sets of two eyes_  
_staring through the layers_  
_of lifetimes and stolen glances_  
_and first kisses and hands held;_  
_the brace against the weight_  
_and unrelenting tide_  
_of waiting._  
_I believe_  
_in love at first sight_  
_but am not burdened with the misconception_  
_that it's a first sight_  
_at all._

\-- Tyler Knott Gregson

 

It surprised him a bit that he was reluctant to make the call, especially when he acknowledged that it might very well set something in motion which would give him exactly what he wanted - something which he probably _shouldn't_ want, he admitted with a sigh. No! No probably to it. This was something he ought to be ashamed of himself for wanting, because he knew - better than anyone - what the cost would be, to someone very special to him.

Chad Barry poured himself another hefty serving of the Courvoisier Cognac which had become his favorite, courtesy of the influence of a certain young, beautiful French sommelier with whom he'd spent a fabulous summer in Tuscany. He took a moment to remember tantalizing green eyes, a perfect cleft chin, and flawless skin, gleaming golden tan in flickering candlelight.

That was a good memory, of a good time in his life, but there were other memories that were less precious, less treasured. And there was one, of course, which was bittersweet, at best, and - in darker, more candid moments - downright painful.

He had given it a special title, and it was always capitalized in his mind: What I Did to Kevin Walker.

And now - now he had a chance to . . . what? To fix it? To atone for his sins? To regain what he'd lost? 

He sighed again, not quite able to ignore the elephant in the room. This wasn't going to save his old friend; this was going to finish the project that had begun when Kevin had learned about his husband's infidelity. This was going to complete the process of breaking his heart.

Nevertheless, he had done what Kevin had asked of him.

When their week-end together had ended - unconsummated, as Chad phrased it in his mind - Kevin had gone back to his tiny little apartment and his "day job" in the pub, and Chad had "tidied up", as agreed, which included making certain that young Greg Rowland was sufficiently distracted to forget all about the Harley bike that he'd noticed in the club parking lot. That part of his task had been pleasant enough, and the actor wondered how long it would take before the star-struck college student gave in to the urge to share the details of their tryst with someone - friend or lover . . . or tabloid reporter? It didn't really matter anyway. It had done what needed doing, as well as giving Chad an outlet for the emotional and physical hunger that had built up within him during his time with Kevin.

It wasn't a very noble means of dealing with such desires, of course; Rowland was a nice young man and probably deserved better. But ultimately, it had done no harm and given the student a memory he would probably treasure forever.

A fair exchange, Chad thought, but he was honest enough to admit that it was easy to dismiss any uncertainty about the young student's feelings on the subject. It was the provenance of the rich and famous to take advantage of those dazzled by the glitz of stardom; it wasn't necessarily right or wrong. It simply was what it was, and he had long since stopped indulging in bouts of guilty introspection.

But this . . . this was different. This was Kevin.

He walked across the gleaming Montecito Maple flooring of his den, polished almost liquid gold by the slanting rays of afternoon light, watching his reflection in the satiny surface and noting with a quick surge of satisfaction that the snug fit of his 501's still did him credit, as he moved to look out across the terrace of his Pacific Palisades home and follow the progress of a colorful dinghy as it tacked back and forth toward the horizon, its rainbow-hued sails morphing to black as it carved a path across the sun's huge globe of polished copper. Closer to hand, a couple was walking along the beach, joined at the hip with arms entwined, and pausing periodically, to talk or kiss or just enjoy the sounds of the sea, their long shadows twisting and blending together across swaths of white sand. Two, becoming one.

It was perfectly ordinary and ridiculously romantic, at the same time, and it made his heart ache, though he wasn't sure why.

Which was bullshit, of course. He knew exactly why. 

He knew what was coming.

Getting the information that Kevin had requested had been simple enough, a matter of confirming that the upcoming holiday would be a replica of the Walker family Thanksgiving celebration of the previous year, requiring only one quick phone call - or just a glance in a local society column.

Because of Nora's heavy involvement with a number of local children's charities and, to a lesser degree, Kevin's history of work with child protective services, the family had, just a year ago, adopted a new tradition for the Thanksgiving celebration. Instead of spending the holiday at the family home in Pasadena, enjoying the privilege of their station with traditional holiday fare, prepared primarily by Nora, with welcome contributions by Scotty and Saul, the Walkers would host a huge charitable banquet at Café 429, encouraging friends and acquaintances and strangers alike to become a part of the event by joining the festivities, contributing to the cause, and sharing the meal with residents and staff of area orphanages, and any homeless individuals who cared to share the meal.

Like most Walker family endeavors, it had drawn massive media attention, but Chad had phoned the restaurant just to be sure that what he read in the papers was correct.

Yes, the dinner would proceed as planned. Yes, Scotty Wandell would be the primary chef for the huge, traditional meal. And yes, the entire Walker clan would be on hand, to help with food prep, encourage generous donations, and mingle with the guests. All confirmed by a slightly breathless young woman who sounded as if she barely had time to listen to his questions, much less make an effort to determine the identity of the caller.

Of course, there was no way of knowing just how inclusive that 'clan' designation would prove to be, but Chad was willing to bet that such a celebration would not exclude the newest member of the extended family. The only question was whether or not Wandell had mustered up sufficient courage to reveal the truth to the Walkers. There was no way to be certain about that, unless the actor identified himself and demanded to speak to a family member directly, and even that might prove fruitless. The Walkers had no reason to remember him kindly or answer him truthfully. Therefore, he could only make an educated guess, based on his own intuition and his certainty about what _he_ would do should he find himself in such a situation. Though it was possible that Kevin's husband would play it safe and hide the existence of the child, Chad somehow didn't believe it. Wandell had never been very good at cowering in a closet, and it seemed unlikely he would do so now.

Watching as the couple on the beach sank to the sand, totally wrapped up in each other and neither knowing nor caring if they were being watched, the actor picked up his phone and hit speed dial.

It was obvious that Kevin had been waiting for the call as he answered immediately.

"Okay, Baby," said Chad softly, "it's done. Everything's just as you thought. Serving starts at noon and goes on through until evening, depending on how big the crowd is, which is not much of a question. According to the media, it'll be huge."

For a few moments, Kevin's only response was a deep, pregnant silence, and when he did finally speak, it was little more than a whisper. "Can I stay with you?"

The question caught Chad by surprise, but he realized quickly that it shouldn't have. For what Kevin would face, even he would need some nuance of moral support. Much as he might wish it, he could not manage everything completely alone. 

"For as long as you like."

There was a tiny huff of breath that might have been a sigh of gratitude - or not. "Just the one night. That's all I'll need."

Chad rubbed his fingers against the slow throbbing in his temple, groping for the right words. "Why don't you reserve judgment on that, until you know what you're dealing with?"

At the pub, Kevin leaned against the bar, his eyes fixed on the brightness beyond the mullioned window where a trio of children were riding tricycles in the square, tiny bodies bundled up against the brisk chill of the wind. "Don't do that, Chad," he said softly. "You know that this isn't going to change anything, except maybe to make it clearer that I was right all along."

The actor hesitated, easily identifying the desolation in that familiar voice. "Then why do this to yourself? Why come at all?"

This time, the sigh was obvious. "Because I have to know. Just this one thing, I need to know."

Chad was suddenly gripped with painful certainty, understanding the why - and wishing he didn't. "You think that this will make it right for him. That it'll justify your decision to walk away for good, knowing that he has what he needs to make him happy. Don't you?"

Kevin wanted to deny it, but couldn't. Instead he opted to change the subject. "Thanks for this, Chad. I know you don't think. . ."

"Can I ask you something, Old Friend?"

Kevin paused, hearing something unprecedented in the actor's voice. Chad had never been reluctant to speak - about anything - so why did he sound so uncertain now? But there was no doubt that he had the right to ask any question he liked.

"What do you want to know?"

"Why him?"

Kevin suddenly found it difficult to draw his next breath, but Chad was not finished asking. "I mean, I know he's a nice piece of eye candy, and as charming and cuddly as a pup, but . . . there's got to be more than that. Doesn't there? How did he become . . . what he is to you?"

Kevin closed his eyes, lost for a moment in memory so intense, it was a physical tightening around his heart, the memory of a first meeting, and he was struck by something that was almost an epiphany. Even then - beneath the formalities and the standard attorney/client rhetoric and his own professional demeanor - he had known . . . and been frightened beyond belief.

He allowed himself a small, lopsided smile, but there was no matching warmth in his eyes. "He just kind of . . . sneaked in when I wasn't looking," he replied. "Slipped right through all my defenses like they weren't even there. I thought . . . I always thought it was proof that it was meant to be."

"I'm sorry, Love."

"Don't be. Obviously, I was wrong."

Chad suddenly hated himself for asking the question in the first place. "Stop it," he said sharply. "Stop beating yourself up, and stop assuming. Maybe you'll be surprised. Maybe you'll find that you weren't wrong at all."

Kevin chose not to address that possibility, but ignoring the comment was an answer in itself. "I'll see you Wednesday night," he said instead and hung up quickly, deliberately avoiding any further remarks Chad might care to make - especially those so on - or off - target that they were like arrows to the heart. 

But if he hoped to avoid further difficult conversation, he was doomed to disappointment.

"You ready to tell me what's really going on?"

In his haste to shake off further questions from Chad, he'd failed to notice the approach of Belinda as she came in from the kitchen.

"I already told you," he replied, not quite as smoothly as he'd have liked. "It's just an obligation to an old college buddy. He's eloping to Vegas and wants a few friends to come along for a bachelor party."

"Very sudden, isn't it?" Her tone was dry - Mojave dry. "Until yesterday, I didn't think you _had_ any buddies - old or otherwise."

"Well, I'm not sure, but I think the word 'eloping' is a clue that it happened suddenly," he replied, concentrating on polishing glasses that were already perfectly polished, and not making much of an effort to subdue a note of sarcasm in his tone. "I'd have told you earlier, if I'd known."

She moved in close beside him and waited until he was forced to look up and meet her eyes. "If I didn't know better," she observed finally, "I'd think you were trying to avoid spending the holiday with us."

"But you do," he retorted, not quite achieving the teasing tone he was aiming for. "Know better, I mean."

"Do I?" She said nothing more, but underscored the question by reaching out and laying a gentle hand on his shoulder.

He did not quite flinch, but it was a near thing. The Bells had been extraordinarily good to him, and he hated lying to them, but how could he tell them the truth? What was he to say?

_"Sorry to disappoint you, but I have to go blazing down to LA, to see if my husband really has made a new life for himself with the mother of the child that was supposed to be our son?"_

Yeah, he could definitely imagine their response to _that_ little revelation.

The pub had been quiet all week-end, since most of the college students had gone home for the holidays, and many staff members had taken advantage of the break to visit family and friends in far-off places. 

Many - but not quite all, and Kevin barely managed to suppress a sigh as he looked up and spotted a familiar figure striding through the front door.

Brian Padgett always looked to be in a hurry, even when he had no special place to be and no urgent errand to run. And he always managed to look completely sexy in the process. When he settled at the bar and smiled up at Kevin, there was a quick glint of something indefinable in his eyes - a glint that Kevin dared not try to identify.

Kevin poured out the generous double shot of Maker's Mark without waiting for the order and braced himself for what was sure to follow as Brian shrugged off the leather jacket that he always wore when he was not in professorial uniform.

Padgett lifted his glass, tipped his head in a wordless toast, and took a long swallow before turning to stare directly into Kevin's eyes. "So you're off to star in a new version of _The Hangover_. I'm a little surprised. Never thought you were into that sort of thing."

"Obligations to old friends," Kevin answered, making sure to keep his voice flat and inflectionless as he poured himself a shot. "What about you? Got plans for the big day?"

Another long swallow and a soft shrug. "The ex-wife is apparently feeling generous. I'm invited to pay a visit - a quick one - to see my children. In Reno. I'm debating."

Kevin felt mildly disoriented, and then wondered why, before realizing that he knew why perfectly well. "I didn't know you had children."

Padgett stared into his glass, his eyes unfocussed and bleak. "I don't."

"But . . ."

"Legally, they're mine. Because I was married to their mother when they were born. Biologically . . . well, I'm sure I don't have to spell it out for you."

Kevin didn't know what to say, so he said nothing. He simply poured out another drink.

"They don't know, of course," Padgett continued. "They just think they've got a shitty father."

"Ever consider telling them the truth?" Kevin asked, wondering what he would do in such a situation.

Padgett took a deep breath. "What would that solve? It's not their fault. I'm not even sure it's their mother's fault."

"Then what . . ."

"I . . . lost interest in the marriage. Not sure why. She didn't do anything to cause it. I just . . . it got easier to stay away. She . . . got lonely, I guess."

Kevin regarded the professor's face as he thought over what he'd heard. Then he wondered when it was that Brian Padgett, pub patron and acquaintance, had graduated to Brian Padgett . . . something more.

"Isn't that what divorce courts are for?" he said finally. "She could have . . ."

"Yeah. So could I. But we didn't. Not until later. So now, the kids pay the price." Padgett's smile was bittersweet. "Sometimes, life just sucks."

Kevin was startled into a soft chuckle and lifted his glass. "I'll drink to that."

Padgett nodded and drank. Then he stood and reached for his jacket. "Think I'll go someplace private and drink myself into a stupor. If I'm lucky, I'll wake up and the holiday will be over and done with."

"Hey," said Kevin suddenly, compelled to ask and not sure why. Not even sure he wanted to understand why. "Do you love them anyway? Even knowing they're not . . ."

Padgett's face softened. "You'd think I wouldn't. But I do. Which doesn't make it any easier."

Kevin's smile was gentle. "When I get back, maybe we could get together. For dinner, or drinks. Or something. Someplace where I don't have to do the pouring."

Padgett paused and looked up, and - for one brief moment of clarity - he made no attempt to disguise a flicker of interest in his eyes. "Yeah. That sounds good. Someplace . . . that's not here."

And Kevin could not quite ignore the swelling of alarm bells that erupted in his mind, as something in his mind clicked into place - something that had been vague and nebulous erupted into perfect clarity. Something he still wasn't sure he wanted to know.

Padgett departed, striding out exactly as he'd come striding in - urgently, with great determination - but maybe, just maybe, there was a tiny trace of something more in the set of his shoulders and the intensity of his swagger. Maybe, there was a nuance of anticipation in his demeanor.

Kevin did not allow himself to think about it - much.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

 

As anticipated, the Thanksgiving celebration at Café 429 was an overwhelming success. The up-and-coming popularity of the restaurant, combined with the social clout of the Walker family name, was enough to insure that the contributors were plentiful and well-heeled and - in some cases - instantly recognizable to the paparazzi who lingered near the front entrance. There was, for example, an actress recently promoted from the down-market arena of daily soaps to the newest thriving genre of filmdom - the YA phenomenon spawned initially in sparkling vampire trash but evolving now into a worthwhile pursuit with insightful political commentary masked in tales of youthful adventure and melodrama. There was also a rock star, slightly past his prime now but with a new album - rumored to be good enough and original enough to enable him to reclaim his superstar status - just ready to release. 

Publicity of any kind was valuable to such individuals, but good publicity, in connection with a worthy charitable cause, was priceless. 

Thus they - and others like them - dressed carefully, in Versace or Elie Saab, elegant but understated, designed to flatter and enhance perfect features without emphasizing the cultural/financial chasm which separated them from those who would benefit from their charitable largesse. They smiled and posed with anonymous faces in the crowd and were careful to time their acts of donation to catch the eyes of the members of the press who were present to record the events of the day . They did not realize that those individuals who were the true focus of the occasion - the ones who came to the restaurant to take advantage of the opportunity to fill their bellies with decent, wholesome, tasty food - often failed to notice the celebrities at all or - at best - observed such grand gestures with sardonic, almost indulgent smiles.

The poor and homeless and disadvantaged, the ones for whom this event was held and who would eat well on this day, knew what - and who - really mattered. Their gratitude was genuine and heartfelt, and they expressed it accordingly, but only to those directly responsible for the largesse. Thus, Nora Walker and her family and the restaurant staff were sought out and thanked repeatedly and emotionally, and were frequently brought to tears by the sincerity of words of appreciation.

Café 429 and its chef - the charming young man who seemed to be poised on the verge of culinary superstardom - were known for haute cuisine, for being daring and inventive with new recipes and tastes, but, for this occasion, Scotty had chosen to retreat from gastronomic experimentation to rely on a more traditional menu. His regular clientele might swoon over a fabulous new creation of sea scallops flambé or a _foie gras_ terrine, but the people who would attend this celebration would have no interest in such exotic concoctions.

Thanksgiving meant turkey and ham and cornbread dressing and cranberry sauce and candied yams and desert tables laden with pumpkin and pecan pies and carrot cakes. Thanksgiving meant tradition, and that's what Scotty was determined to provide. Thus the restaurant was permeated with the fragrances of sage and ginger and cardamom and rosemary, aromas that served to whet appetites while simultaneously stirring old memories for those who had fallen on hard times. Most could no longer afford to indulge in such feasts, but they almost all remembered better days.

It created a bittersweet ambiance, and there was much laughter and warm conversation, but there were also those who sat quietly, savoring the moment - and the memories - and not all of them were the targets of the charitable effort.

Scotty was busy, of course, but not quite busy enough to avoid reflecting on certain things.

It was colder than usual for Pasadena, and he could not help but note that someone would have been happy about that, someone who had always contended that Thanksgiving and Christmas should always be cold, that it was somehow sacrilege to run around in shirt sleeves and shorts in November and December. Southern California was not always in sync with such expectations, but this year, the air was crisp and chill and the overnight lows were dipping close to the freezing mark.

 _Someone_ would be bundled up in Louis Vuitton wool and cashmere, or perhaps a Burberry trench coat. Or maybe even sleek, expensive black leather and denim - all classic expressions of _someone's_ exquisite taste and style.

Unless, of course, _someone_ was currently sunning himself in Key Biscayne or Honolulu or Fiji. _Someone_ could, after all, be anywhere by this time. Anywhere in the world.

The thought was almost physically painful.

Scotty allowed himself a small sigh, which morphed into a genuine smile as a small figure raced through the doorway and wrapped tiny arms around his knees.

The last of the Walker family contingent had arrived, via Kitty and her entourage, which included his son - he still could hardly wrap his mind around the phrase, _his son_ \- who was announcing his presence.

The smile faded quickly then, as he realized that the phrase should have been _our son_ \- but probably never would be.

He wiped his hands carefully on his apron before bending to lift Daniel and set him on a clear space on the granite counter in order to avail himself of the only true pleasure that he allowed himself these days - the sight of his beautiful child's happy smile. Just as Nora had predicted, Daniel had adjusted to his place in his new family quickly, bonding easily with the adults who adored him and especially with Evan, Kitty's son who was enjoying no longer being the baby of the family.

"Hey, Munchkin," said Scotty, smoothing the cowlick that always stood straight up above Daniel's left ear, "did you have fun at Aunt Kitty's house?"

The little boy beamed, but it was Kitty who spoke up to answer. "Considering that I now have a Lego castle in my dining room that could easily house Godzilla and his offspring, I think you can take that as a given. They had a ball. Add to that the fact that he and Evan are both buzzing from Cinnabons and peppermint hot chocolate, and you have one supremely happy kid."

"Cinnabons? _And_ hot chocolate? Not exactly the healthiest . . ."

"Oh, shut up," she retorted with a grin. "I'm going to be the indulgent aunt who spoils him rotten when his father's back is turned."

Scotty's smile was gentle. "Thank God for that. He . . ." When he fell silent, he found that he could not stand to look up and meet Kitty's eyes. He knew what he would see there and was not sure he could endure her sympathy.

This was supposed to be a joyful day; he must spend it concentrating on what was present in his life, good in his life. Not on what wasn't.

"Looks like a full house," Kitty observed, reading her brother-in-law's thoughts easily. "Mom must be in her element."

"Doing her thing," he replied. "Last I saw, she was introducing twin toddlers to potential donors. Nothing opens purse strings like beautiful little orphans with huge eyes and shy smiles."

Kitty grinned. "My mother - the Master Manipulator. What can I do to help?"

Scotty glanced out into the dining room, paying particular attention to a table in the corner, where a young woman was seated in a pool of morning light near the front window. "Actually," he said in a low voice, "I need you to keep an eye on Daniel for me. I want him to know what's happening here, and to have a chance to mingle with the children, but . . ."

"But?"

He sighed. "Michelle is here." He lifted a hand quickly, to forestall the protest he saw rising in her eyes. "And before you can say it, I know that it probably wasn't the smartest thing to do. But . . . it's Thanksgiving, and she _is_ the only mother he ever knew, so I . . . I said she could come, that she could see him, if she promised not to cause trouble or try to interfere with my choices for him."

Kitty managed - if only barely - to swallow the surge of anger that almost refused to be suppressed. "Oh, Scotty, you're way too soft-hearted for your own good, you know. If it were me . . ."

"I know," he replied with a sigh. "If it were you, there'd be restraining orders - not to mention arrest warrants. But whatever else she's done, she did take good care of him. She could have done worse - much worse - so . . ."

"Oh, all right," she conceded. "I swear not to shoot her. Or drive a stake through her vampire heart. Other than that, I won't make any promises."

He nodded. "Just keep watch for me. If . . . when she approaches Daniel, I need to know he'll be . . ."

Kitty held up a hand and favored him with a brilliant smile. "Stop worrying, Sweetie. I may no longer be the wife of a presidential candidate, but I pack a certain amount of political power, and I'm still the mother of Robert's son. Thus, I always have security, even though most people don't notice. Daniel will be just fine."

Scotty frowned briefly, but chose to remain silent. If he spared a thought to the tragedy of a need for such precautions in a supposedly enlightened age - and he did - he figured Kitty needed no reminders. She had seen enough tragedy of her own, including, he knew, the loss of a brother she still mourned, even though she rarely spoke of him any more.

He dropped a kiss on his son's forehead and set him down to follow Kitty into the dining room, before turning back to his food preparation. He knew that many chefs - true masters - confined themselves to supervisory duties once they'd achieved success, limiting their hands-on contributions, but that would never be his role. Supervising others left too much time for maundering, and he already did far too much of that.

Especially today.

He heard the sound of Daniel's laughter as he was greeted by a group of children and tried to take comfort from that. He had so much; it was selfish to ask for more.

And yet . . .

He looked up then, glancing into the front room, and frowned. There was something not quite right, something . . . 

He moved forward slightly, watching, uncertain of what it was that he'd seen, that had made him so uneasy.

Something . . .

Abruptly, he went completely still.

_No. Surely he was wrong. Surely it couldn't be . . ._

But then he drew a deep, shaky breath. He was not wrong. There were very few people in the world who had the capacity to make his heart skip a beat - to freeze his breath in his throat. Very few, but he was definitely looking at one of them now.

He did not hesitate, did not stop to think - or to care - and the fact that this individual was standing beside the table where Michelle was sitting only served to compound the fury rising within him.

He walked straight into the dining room, past family, friends, patrons - past everyone, unseeing and uncaring - until he was standing directly behind a slender young man with a mop of bright blond locks.

Michelle had been deep in conversation with the youth, but she went still and wide-eyed as she saw Scotty approach and read the look on his face - a look she had never seen before, not even once in all the years she'd known him. A look of which she wasn't even sure she'd have believed him capable if she hadn't seen it herself.

The phrase, 'if looks could kill' sprang to mind, and she had no doubt that it was completely appropriate.

Scotty did not pause. He simply reached forward, clamped a firm hand on the young man's shoulder, and spoke only two words - very firm and very cold.

"Get - out!"

Marcus Richter had only visited the restaurant once since his hasty departure on the night he had run for his life when Scotty's husband had found out about the liaison between him and the young chef - on the occasion when he'd made the mistake of trying to pick up where he'd left off with young Mr. Wandell. After that ill-advised attempt, he had only ventured into the vicinity once or twice. He had worked up enough courage to attempt a little clandestine surveillance on occasion, but only from a safe distance.

Still, he had believed he would go unobserved today. He had dressed up for the occasion, foregoing the jeans and t-shirts he normally wore and donning a sports jacket and slacks, and it had seemed probable that Scotty and his employees and family members would be too busy to keep track of everyone who came by during the day. 

He quickly realized that he had been wrong - very, very wrong.

"What do you . . ." He sputtered as he was jerked back away from the table and shoved toward the front door. "You can't . . ."

Scotty didn't bother with a verbal response. He simply moved forward and lifted his hand, as if to push again.

Marcus - wisely - backed away, but he was still muttering under his breath. "You have no right . . ."

This minor skirmish, which the young blond had no chance of winning, was interrupted by the arrival of two men - tall, dark-eyed, wearing black suits and dark sunglasses - who stepped forward, one on each side of the young man, each inserting a hand under one arm and lifting to the point of forcing him to walk on tiptoes.

"Don't be concerned, Mr. Wandell," said one of them. "The gentleman was just leaving."

Marcus's eyes widened. "No, I wasn't. You can't . . ."

The second of the two men turned and stared directly into the young man's eyes, and there was no mistaking the hard planes of determination in his face. "This is a private party, Sir, and you are not welcome here. Now, you either walk out of your own accord, or we carry you to the door where you will be turned over to authorities. Are we clear?"

Scotty, meanwhile, turned to find Kitty in the crowd, and nodded his appreciation. Apparently, her security was every bit as good as she thought it was, and he had no doubt that, if young Richter decided to force the issue, he would regret it - and quickly.

But that still left one question to be answered.

Turning away from the minor altercation - with a quick, fervent hope that he'd never have to gaze upon that blond boy-toy's face again - Scotty moved to the table where Michelle was sitting and stood looking down at her.

"Scotty . . ."

"No excuses and no evasions, Michelle. How do you know him and what was he doing here?"

It was a question he had a right to ask, and an answer he needed to hear. Unfortunately, as luck would have it - or, perhaps, the whims of fate - that opportunity was lost so that the question was rendered moot and, by the time the answer was available to him, it would no longer matter. The moment was interrupted as all the sounds of the busy room were abruptly shattered by the joyful shout of a small, shrill voice.

"Mom-mieeeeee!"

And Scotty was forced to turn away from the object of his speculation and reach out to catch a tiny, darting figure in his arms as Daniel came sprinting toward the table, having just caught a glimpse of the woman who had been the only parent he'd known for most of his young life.

For the space of a heartbeat, Scotty wanted nothing more than to rush out of the room, out of the building - out of Michelle's life - and bear his son away to safety, to a place where no one - especially the individual who had given birth to this beloved child - could ever hurt him again. In protective father mode, the urge was almost irresistible.

Almost!

But the bright sparks of love and longing he read in his son's eyes stopped him cold. As much as he wanted to forbid this reunion - to allow his instincts to take over and wrap the boy in a protective shell that would allow no access to the person who had committed the ultimate betrayal against himself and the man who had been the love of his life - he couldn't.

Instead, he took a deep breath and turned to allow Daniel and Michelle to greet each other with laughter and loving gazes as beams of morning light framed the three of them in a picture perfect moment against the restaurant's front window.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Café 429 was located in a commercial section of an older neighborhood. Thus, it was not an area comprised of high-rise buildings and acres of chrome and steel and plate glass. Instead, though completely modern, its setting was slightly nostalgic. There were more mom-and-pop type businesses than franchise enterprises, and the ambiance was more traditional than high tech. The street was a small boulevard, with lots of trees and shrubbery and old-fashioned style lamp posts, and there were no vast, wide-open parking lots, although there were plenty of commercial establishments.

Across the street and a few yards to the south was a small, charming brick building which housed an old coffee-and-donut shop that was owned by the Forrester family. It had been in operation for almost three decades, and was well known to every resident of the area. It was called the Early Riser, and was famous for rich, dark roast coffee and a unique recipe of gingerbread-style apple fritters that no one else had ever been able to duplicate - not even renowned chef Scotty Wandell, much to his chagrin.

The building had remained basically unchanged throughout its history except for one small addition which had been erected just a couple of years earlier. In a reluctant concession to the rapidly increasing pace of life in the fast lane, the Forresters had allowed the construction of a drive-through window to accommodate the demands of devoted customers in too much of a hurry to dine in. Though the owners had been doubtful initially about the wisdom of the decision, they had quickly been forced to admit that they'd done the smart thing when sales had skyrocketed almost immediately.

Thus, the drive-through lane was almost always full, with a solid line-up of waiting vehicles from opening time at 5:00 AM until well past noon every day.

Only this was Thanksgiving, and anyone who knew the family would know better than to expect to find the shop open on this traditional holiday. Thus the small parking lot, and the drive that circled around behind the building were deserted, and there was no one around to notice that a lone figure stood in the shade of the fern pine tree that grew at the corner of the old brick building or that a sleek, dark Harley-Davidson was parked in the private parking area reserved for the staff.

From a distance, no one would have been able to recognize the man who stood there, as his face was obscured by the helmet that he wore and his body was similarly concealed by heavy leathers, dark and classic and designed to minimize individual physical traits. If, indeed, anyone had noticed him at all, which no one had, as his dark clothing blended easily with the shadows around him, and he had been careful to remain absolutely still during the time he'd spent there.

Still, if anyone _had_ noticed and had been exceptionally perceptive and persistent enough to watch for a while, that person might have eventually recognized a certain set of the shoulders or the way dark-gloved hands braced against slender hips. But only, of course, if that person had spent a lot of years becoming familiar with those mannerisms and postures.

In other words, it would have taken a special mindset and an intimate knowledge of the silent observer to have any chance of making an accurate identification, and that was something that was not going to happen.

Kevin was determined that he would not allow it. He had not come here to be recognized; he had come to recognize something himself. And now . . .

He had watched in silence, swallowing wave after wave of emotional distress, as friends and old acquaintances had arrived at the café and he'd tried to convince himself that it didn't bother him that they all seemed to be enjoying the day. Then the distress had intensified to actual pain as family members began to arrive; his mother, beautiful and perfectly dressed and in a flurry of frantic activity, as always; Sarah and her lovely family, so bright and beautiful that he was stunned and stricken with longing; his brother, tall and handsome and the object of interest of every woman around him. With each new arrival, Kevin felt the ache within him grow stronger and harder to handle. But he had not seen Scotty yet, so he'd been sure that he was in for much worse before the day was over. And then, fashionably late as always, Kitty had made her appearance, with her customary entourage, with her son, wearing the brilliant smile that Kevin had always loved, and . . .

He would realize later that, until that moment, he'd believed himself to be prepared; that he'd managed to convince himself that he would be able to handle the realization that the thing he'd come here to learn - to confirm or disprove - was true. As he watched his sister and her companions move forward, he knew that there was no way he could have been prepared for the pain that almost sent him to his knees.

The little boy - still a toddler - who held Kitty's hand as they walked toward the café was the most beautiful child he'd ever seen, and he was only slightly surprised to realize that he would have known him anywhere: the son of Scotty Wandell. The child who should have been the son of Kevin Walker.

Later, he would be marginally amazed to understand that a person could endure - physically unchanged - as a world crumbled around him, as reality flexed and, between one heartbeat and the next, became something totally unfamiliar, totally distorted and beyond comprehension.

He did not quite go to his knees, but he did lean heavily against the corner of the building where he was concealed, tears welling in his eyes as he struggled to breathe.

Daniel. His name, according to Chad's sources, was Daniel. It shouldn't matter that it was a name that was never meant to be his, but it did somehow. He watched as the little boy, releasing his hold on Kitty's hand and grabbing Evan's instead, raced into the restaurant, laughing and bright-eyed with excitement.

Kevin closed his eyes for a while, struggling to regain his composure, to regulate his breathing. It would not do to climb on the Harley with his heart thudding in his chest and his eyes half-blind with unshed tears. He knew he should go. It would do no good to linger here. He had found what he came to find; there was no point in . . .

It was at that point, still reeling and barely able to stand, that he looked up and glanced across the street to glimpse a face through the front window of the restaurant - a face that he would have given anything _not_ to see. He wanted to look away, wanted to refuse to see more. But, of course, he couldn't. He watched as the woman who had given birth to the child that should have been his son sat at her corner table and conversed with someone standing beside her; someone with bright, brassy blond hair and a smooth young face, someone . . .

Kevin straightened and shivered abruptly, suddenly colder than he'd ever been in his life, and wondered if the day could possibly get any worse. He didn't think so, as he recognized another face from a past that he no longer wanted to acknowledge.

He was on the verge of turning away, when the tableau before him shifted abruptly . . . and everything else in the world suddenly faded to nothingness. In the blink of an eye, the blond young man was suddenly pulled away from his place beside Michelle's table, only to be replaced by someone else. Someone whom Kevin would have recognized no matter what the circumstances. Someone he would have known anywhere, at any distance.

Scotty - and it was abruptly obvious that, until that moment, Kevin had only thought he'd known the ultimate pain. For there was Scotty, and - almost instantly - there was the little boy in his arms, and they were both turning to look down into Michelle's face.

It was only a moment; for Kevin, it was forever.

Without realizing what he was doing, without stopping to think, he stepped forward, suddenly unable to resist the need to remove his helmet, to remove any obstacle that prevented him from seeing it all, understanding it all.

He moved into the light, the helmet dangling from his hand, at the exact moment that two dark-suited individuals ejected a blond young man from the front door of the café; at the same moment, Scotty Wandell, acting on some impulse that he did not pause to question, looked up and out through the window, and felt . . . eternity slip through his grasp.

There would never be - there _could_ never be - another moment of agony like this one, as two pairs of eyes met and locked and shared a pain from which neither would ever recover.

Before Scotty could move, before he could speak, the dark figure standing across the street had turned and sprinted away back into shadow, and - mere seconds later - the same figure, astride a powerful Harley motorcycle - re-emerged into the sunlight and streaked away toward the main highway.

Inside the restaurant, there was a sudden, bottomless silence, and, though almost no one knew what had caused it, almost everyone realized where it originated. Chef Scotty Wandell, host of the event and up-and-coming celebrity, sank to his knees and gently set his little boy down to allow him to climb into the lap of the only mother he'd ever known. 

He knew he shouldn't leave them alone, but, somehow, at this juncture, it didn't seem to matter any more. Nothing seemed to matter any more.

The only thing that _might_ have mattered had just gone roaring out of his life.

Scotty rose quickly and walked out of the room, out of the café, and - for a little while, at least - out of his life.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~* 

TBC


	13. Ruins

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Still dark, still depressing, still scary. I know. And I never make promises about how my stories will end, but I'm not a Sadist, so maybe, later, there might be some light at the end of the tunnel. Just not yet.

_When you're at the end of the road_  
_And you lost all sense of control_  
_And your thoughts have taken their toll,_  
_When your mind breaks the spirit of your soul,_  
_Your faith walks on broken glass_  
_And the hangover doesn't pass._  
_Nothing's ever built to last._  
_You're in ruins._

_\- 21 Guns_ \- Billie Joe Armstrong

Chapter 13: Ruins

 

Although no one inside the restaurant, except for Scotty, had identified the individual who'd just made good his escape on a classic Harley, there was one other person nearby who had seen and noticed.

Having just been deposited - with not the slightest nuance of respect for his person - on the sidewalk outside the front door of Café 429, Marcus Richter was looking around frantically, hoping against hope that his less-than-dignified ejection would not merit unflattering photos that might wind up on the front page of some third-rate tabloid. It was sheer luck that he happened to be looking in the exact right direction at the exact right moment to spot the face as the dark helmet was removed. Though some small part of him - exceedingly small - could not deny that it was a face that sparked more than a flame of jealousy, another part - by far the most dominant in his mind - was instantly flooded with blind rage and vicious hatred, for this was the face of a man who had cost him dearly. And never mind that most of that cost had been strictly a product of his own imagination.

Marcus had spent a lifetime finding people to blame for his own misadventures and failures; this would be no exception.

And he realized immediately what had to be done to exact appropriate revenge, since he had long dreamed of such an opportunity and already made arrangements for just such an occasion. He was jumping into his car and hitting a pre-programmed number on his phone before the motorcycle was out of sight, and he felt a surge of smug satisfaction as the call was answered on the second ring. Of course, putting himself in the position to make the necessary contacts with the kind of people needed in this situation had required him to don a persona that he'd found slightly distasteful, but he'd decided finally that the end would certainly justify the means. As a proud member of the gay community - verbally, at least - he'd long rejected the Neanderthal points of view of some of his father's ultra-conservative extended family, but he'd never seen any need to flaunt his choices; closets might not be places in which he enjoyed loitering, especially given his physical assets, but, in certain company, they were a far safer option than out-and-proud exposure. In addition, he'd also realized that contacts made in such deeply shadowed places might prove useful if he ever got the opportunity to wreak revenge on those who'd injured him - one in particular.

The opportunity, it seemed, was at hand.

He grinned as he realized that this all involved one random stroke of luck. The route taken by the speeding cyclist would take him to the junction with Los Robles Avenue just a few blocks away, if he was headed toward one of the major highways, which seemed likely. Although Marcus didn't know the intimate details - the family had been tightlipped about the disappearance of their prodigal son - he had managed to glean enough information to figure out that Kevin Walker had definitely left the city when he'd run away from his old life, so it was logical to assume that he would be racing back to his hidden lair, to lick his new wounds. 

And new wounds there definitely were. Though his glimpse of Walker's face had been brief, it had still been enough to allow him to read the devastation written there.

And why not? His husband - his beloved Scotty - had been caught in the act, hadn't he? More or less. Any fool with half a brain would have seen the undeniable family resemblance between the man and the little boy held in his arms, and Kevin Walker might deserve many less-than-flattering labels, but a fool he most definitely was not. 

Marcus felt a shiver of anticipation touch his spine as he was struck by the notion that Karma was a true bitch, as Mr. Walker was about to learn, for it just so happened that the Busted Flush Diner was located less than a block away from a busy corner of Los Robles Avenue, just a couple of streets before its intersection with the Foothill Freeway, which was - most likely - Walker's destination. The place was a combination diner/pool hall owned and run by old pals of Marcus's father and, being part and parcel of a section of town that was more blue collar and less posh than the setting of Café 429, it catered to a less refined crowd. Less refined - and more hardcore. It was, in fact, the favored hangout of a group known, locally, as the Low Riders, a group that included a number of Richter family members and old friends, but specifically did _not_ include any who might be counted among Marcus's current inner circle.

Another stroke of luck for his current purpose.

In addition, on any ordinary Thursday, the diner would be almost deserted at this early hour of the day, but this, of course, was no ordinary Thursday. This was one of the big holidays, and many members of the Riders would be spending the day with their best buddies. The Busted Flush did not, of course, do traditional turkey and trimmings, but it did do the kind of barbeque that appealed to those who referred to themselves as "men's men" - and there was absolutely nothing ambiguous about that term. No one ever misunderstood it, deliberately or otherwise, and if anyone _did_ make that mistake, they quickly and violently learned the error of their ways.

Marcus Richter's call was answered immediately, and the conversation that followed lasted only fifteen seconds. Not much was said, but not much was needed to set a plan in motion that had been brewing in the young waiter/actor's mind ever since his humiliation at the hands of the Walker family.

His grin grew wider as he spotted the object of his interest just a block away, headed, as expected, toward the freeway. Two minutes later, he had more reasons to smile as several bikers pulled out of a side street and closed in behind him, obviously waiting for his signal.

He considered his options and decided to bide his time for a bit, trusting that the opportunity would present itself at the right moment. He could not have known how right - and how wrong - he would prove to be.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

_Too long. Too long, too long, too long._

Scotty would have given anything to dislodge those two words from his mind, but the term just kept repeating in his head as he raced out of the restaurant, having taken only time enough to deposit Daniel in Kitty's lap, ignoring her confusion as well as her demands for an explanation, and grab his car keys before moving away at full sprint.

He _had_ to find Kevin, had to catch up and find some way to stop him, even if every fiber of his being kept insisting that it was taking too long, that he'd never reach him in time.

But he kept going, simply because . . . what else was there to do?

What if this was his last chance? What if that one quick, agonized glimpse was the last time he'd ever be allowed to see that face? What if . . .

There was no point in exploring that possibility, because . . . because he could not fail now. He _must_ find Kevin, no matter what.

Some small scrap of conscience nagged at him, some small regret that he had not taken time to inform the family - especially Nora - of the identity of the man he'd seen staring at him through the window. He doubted they'd ever forgive him for running away without a word, but none of that mattered now. _Nothing_ mattered now, except completing his mission.

He remembered then that he _had_ spoken, just one word as he'd spotted that beautiful, beloved face. Just one word as he'd simultaneously seen and understood the expression in those incredible, blue eyes.

"Kevin," he'd whispered, as he'd watched his husband's heart shatter and crumble to dust.

He thought perhaps Michelle had heard and realized what had happened, but he wasn't sure. And even if she had understood, she might choose to keep her observations to herself. It was hardly likely that the Walkers would be grateful for her contribution to their puzzled conversation.

But he couldn't worry about that now. It didn't matter. _Nothing_ else mattered, and he was struck by a bolt of sheer terror as he realized how true that statement was. Kevin mattered, and, without him, there was nothing else in his life that would make up for his loss.

Scotty pulled out into traffic, ignoring the screeching brakes and furious horn-blowing of the BMW he almost clipped in the process, and accelerated down the street, weaving in and out of traffic, driving too fast, too recklessly. He knew it was dangerous, knew he needed to slow down, but found, ultimately, that he couldn't.

Not as long as those two words continued to reverberate in his mind.

 _Too long_.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Kevin Walker was extraordinarily grateful for the protection offered by the helmet, both literal and figurative. It shielded him from the sharp chill of the wind and the glare of sunlight, of course, but it also turned aside the curiosity of any onlookers who might wonder why the cyclist was moving erratically and hunched so tightly over the mass of the big bike.

It was serving its purpose extremely well. Unfortunately, it could not accomplish everything that he might need done. It could not, for example, wash away the tears that insisted on rising in his eyes; it could not clear his vision like wipers on a windshield. Above all, it could not allow him to unsee what he'd seen.

There was no longer any way to avoid the truth; he had seen it for himself.

Scotty had a son - a living, breathing, beautiful, perfect son. With Michelle. Kevin had understood everything in an epiphany contained in a fraction of a second. He had not, of course, wasted any time or effort in studying the face of the woman who had given birth to that exquisite little boy. In all honesty, he couldn't have cared less about what she was thinking or feeling. In point of fact, he was fairly certain that he'd rather not know. But there was no way he could avoid the undeniable truth of the look in Scotty's eyes as he'd gazed into the face of his exquisite baby boy. There had been nothing but adoration in those much-loved blue eyes, and Kevin could not even summon up a small trace of jealousy in response. He understood why Scotty felt as he did; understood and approved and knew that - given even the smallest opportunity - he would have felt the same. 

He could not blame Scotty for how he felt. If, as it appeared, the cost of having that precious child in his life was turning away from the man who had once been so important to him, then . . .

Kevin leaned to his right abruptly and veered sharply into a cross street, neither noticing nor caring that his sudden turn had created a quick eruption of chaos in the roadway behind him. It didn't matter, because he had suddenly realized that he could not complete his mad dash toward the freeway, that he needed a few moments of silence in a place away from prying eyes and pointing fingers. He needed . . .

In point of fact, he didn't know exactly what he needed; he only knew that he had to get away, to find a place where he could go to ground for a little while, where he could just stand still and be consumed by the desolation rising within him.

It was either that or simply put his foot down, going ever faster and faster and faster until he found a convenient stone wall to aim for, and . . . he couldn't do that. Not for himself. If he were only thinking of himself, he was pretty sure that was exactly what he'd do. The only thing he wanted at that moment was an end to the pain raging deep within him. Oblivion sounded more and more like a haven, an end to his torment. But he knew what such an act would do to the people he loved. He knew what it would do to his mother and his sisters and his brothers, but - most of all - he knew what it would do to Scotty. 

It had been there in his face when he'd looked up to see Kevin staring at him and his son.

Perhaps there would be grief. He still believed that Scotty had loved him - once. Only not enough, perhaps.

No. There might be some degree of grief, but it would be nothing compared to the guilt that Scotty would endure, and that, Kevin simply could not allow. Whatever their union might have meant to his husband, Kevin knew one thing for certain: Scotty was the love of his life, the man who owned his heart, permanently and forever. There would be no other, no matter how many willing bodies he might be able to fuck his way through. He was fairly certain that there _would_ always be an ample supply of such bodies. That had never been a problem. But the number and variety would never change the fundamental truth. No one would ever replace Scotty. Thus, he must contend with what could not be changed: no matter how much he wanted to put an end to this agony raging inside him, he could not inflict that kind of damage on the man he would always love.

He had to find another way.

He raced through the streets of the city, paying little attention to what was around him, noting only that the traffic was thinning, and the jumbled landscape of urban commercial developments was gradually shifting, giving way first to blocks of apartment buildings and residential suburbs and finally to more pastoral vistas of brilliant green meadows and hillsides. It might be autumn, but this was still southern California, and it would never be anything less than bursting with the promise of spring's renewal. Unless, of course, the drought that had arisen in recent years continued or grew worse. Then . . . well, that didn't bear thinking about, which was all right since he wasn't really capable of thinking about much of anything right now except the images that refused to be banished from his mind.

Scotty and the looks in his eyes - first when he'd gazed into the face of his son, and then, when he'd looked up and . . . 

Kevin didn't much want to focus on that image, didn't really want to know what it was he'd seen on that beloved face in that frozen, endless moment.

He pressed down on the throttle and moved ever faster, roaring through bright sunshine and past landscaped fields.

When he came to the T-junction that marked end of the road he'd followed and gazed across at the carefully tended grounds of the facility spread out before him, he almost smiled. He was pretty sure he hadn't deliberately selected this location, but it would do, at least as well as any other. It would even give him something he had not realized he needed: someone to talk to as he vented the turmoil within him. Even though he was pretty sure he would receive no response, and that if, by some miraculous intervention, he did get an answer, it would not be anything he wanted to hear.

But any port in a hurricane was preferable to the violence of the open sea, and the cataclysmic emotions writhing within him certainly qualified as a major storm.

This would do nicely. It was quiet, private, and isolated, and - on this major holiday - it would probably be virtually deserted. 

Even better.

He revved the motor on the big Harley and raced down the curved drive between perfectly coifed banks of rhododendrons arranged before a row of massive ironwoods, and pulled into the corner of a vast parking area, which was dappled with pale sunlight as a sporadic breeze ruffled the foliage of a nearby cluster of California pepper trees. The lot, he noted with appropriate gratitude, was completely empty except for a couple of maintenance vehicles near a small, discreetly landscaped storage building.

As he killed the motor and its intense rumble dissolved into silence except for the drone of distant traffic, he spent a moment wondering if it was somehow blasphemous to have come roaring into such an enclave of serenity, but then he reasoned that it didn't really matter since there appeared to be no one around to notice.

It had been a long time since he'd been here, and he almost smiled as he realized that the individual who would be the object of his visit would probably not recognize him in his current attire. He had probably never come here in anything less formal than a suit and tie. In his old life - the one that now seemed so alien to him - it would have seemed inappropriate to visit this place in casual garb.

Now - well, it hardly mattered now, did it? He was not that person any more. With a small sigh, he removed his helmet and gloves and left them with the bike, as he made his way through the small pedestrian gate at the rear of the parking area.

He walked in silence, noting that the caretakers had done their usual stellar job in keeping the walkways completely free of the customary detritus of autumn. No scattering of dead leaves would be tolerated in this bastion of spotless tranquility, and no stray weed would be allowed to spoil the perfection of the landscaping. One did not come here and expect to find anything less than perfect order.

Rank, after all, still had its privileges.

His destination was near the center of the vast grounds, just a few yards away from the small, stone-edged body of water that glistened blue and pristine in the sunlight.

It was all perfectly maintained, of course. Anything else would be unthinkable.

Kevin stood for a moment after reaching his goal, lost in memory and contemplation. Then he did something he had never done before. He sank to his knees and rested his forehead against the massive slab of marble that marked the final resting place of William Walker.

"Hey, Dad," he whispered. Then he waited, almost as if he expected an answer, which, was, of course, the ultimate expression of foolishness. His father had seldom had much to say to him - on a personal basis - when he was among the living; why would that change now? Kevin knew the unavoidable truth about William's feelings for him. The elder Walker had loved his son, as every good Catholic father loved his child - as much as he could at least - but he had never learned to accept him, never managed to set aside his disappointment.

His middle son was homosexual, and William Walker had never found it in his heart to forgive that betrayal, although he had tried. Late in his life, he had even made some effort to communicate, to tear down the wall that he himself had built between them, but, in the end, it had been too little, too late.

Kevin had dealt with it, as he'd dealt with everything in his life. He had stood tall and accepted what he could not change. But now . . . could he do it again? Could he live with doing what he knew he should?

After a brief silence, Kevin continued, "This is irony with a capital I, isn't it? That I should wind up here - with you - when I finally realize that I've got no place else to go. Especially when I know what you'd say to me, if you could say anything. Something along the lines of 'Man up, Kid. Do the right thing, and walk away. Let everyone else get on with their lives, without having to deal with your crap.' Right, Dad?"

A flutter of wings drew his eyes to the water where a dark swan had settled in to feed, as he heard a multi-pitched roar from the direction of the street. Apparently he wasn't the only biker out for a midday ride.

He turned then and settled with his back against the headstone and lost himself in a study of the ripples that disturbed the lake's surface as he sank into memory, ignoring everything else around him.

So many memories of beautiful moments, of himself wrapped in Scotty's arms, of the smile in which he could have lost himself forever, of the future they might have built together, of all that had been. Of all that could be no more.

There weren't many things that Kevin knew with perfect certainty, but there was one about which there could be no doubts. He would never see anything more beautiful than the sight of his husband looking down into the face of his son. He knew that much . . . and he knew one thing more. He could never again allow himself to give in to temptation; he could never see it again.

"That's the final truth, isn't it?" he whispered. He didn't bother to pretend that he was speaking to anyone. His father wasn't listening - and wouldn't have raised any objection even if he had been. "I need to go. For him. For both of them, and for them all."

He rose then and turned to look down once more. To say a last good-bye. "Sorry, Dad. I shouldn't be here. And I won't come again."

"Well, that's right enough, little darlin'," said a rough voice from behind him, under a burst of ugly laughter, as hard, calloused hands grabbed his shoulders and jerked him off his feet. "You'll never get the chance, Faggot." 

"What the . . ." He would not be able to finish the question.

He would have fought back. That was a given. 'Faggot' or not, Kevin Walker was no coward, and, like every homosexual man, he'd been forced to defend himself quite a few times in his life, even in the somewhat rarefied atmosphere inhabited by members of his social set. Thus, he would have fought - if he'd been given half a chance. But he wasn't. Even as he tried to turn, hands curling to be ready for battle, he only had time to glimpse one familiar face beneath a mop of brassy curls before he was pummeled by multiple hard fists smashing into his face and his torso and belly, while boot-clad feet slammed into his lower body, his legs, and his crotch. 

He didn't get an opportunity to see much, as the first blow from a massive fist wearing a heavy signet ring impacted on his forehead, and blood erupted immediately and filled his eyes, even as he felt ribs crack under the onslaught, and his legs gave way beneath him with bones shattered, dropping him to the hard earth as the vicious blows continued and intensified in frenzied fury.

Finally, there was a brief pause as the leader of the group - a broad, bearded, middle-aged man with badly-stained teeth, who smelt of beer and old sweat - knelt on one knee and wrapped his fist in Kevin's jacket to jerk him up and snarl into his face. "You got anything to say, Queer? Wanna beg fer mercy? Wanna offer to suck my cock?"

Kevin could not see the man's face. There was only the bright scarlet of blood, bitter and coppery in his mouth, and the darkness at the edge of his vision. But he managed to open his mouth and whisper two words.

"Fuck - you!"

After that, there wasn't much more time, as the beating resumed. Indeed, Kevin only managed one complete thought before the darkness closed in upon him.

_I'm going to die here. Scotty, I'm so sor . . ._

It went on for a while before the attackers - all seven of them - grew bored. It was no fun when the object of their mindless rage was limp and unresponsive.

Marcus Richter grew increasingly frustrated - and slightly sick to his stomach even as he vented his resentment with kicks to the victim's back and shoulders, while retaining sufficient control to make sure he extracted Walker's wallet from his pocket in the (correct) assumption that it would yield a fair amount of cash. Still, it was not working out exactly as he'd expected. He had long dreamed of this day, but he had never been so intimately involved in something so intense, so he was not prepared for the reality of it. There was so much blood, and Walker . . . Walker had not behaved as Richter had hoped. He had not begged for his life, had not tried to bargain with his attackers. 

He'd been ready to fight; that much had been obvious. But, in the end, he'd gone down under the deluge of fists and booted feet without offering any sign of surrender. He had been beaten, but he had never yielded.

Richter found that his revenge was not nearly so sweet as he'd anticipated. Instead, it left a bitter taste in his mouth.

After a while, muttering their disappointment in not being successful in their attempts to vent all their hatred, they left Kevin Walker there, draped across his father's grave, with blood - Christmas ribbon bright - pooling crimson against white marble.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

The murmur of conversation in Café 429 continued unabated as the guests expressed their appreciation for the efforts of the staff. The crowd did not begin to thin until late afternoon when the patrons of the charity - the social elite and the celebrities - were first to depart, having generously pledged their continued support. Most had been even more generous than they'd planned, since Nora Walker, in her best fundraiser mode, was almost impossible to resist. They left with full bellies - many fuller than usual, since the food had been spectacularly good and the desserts too tempting to resist. All expressed gratitude for being included in the celebration as well as rueful acknowledgement that they'd probably eaten too much.

Nora stood near the entrance and spoke with each of them as they made their exits, and if her smile was slightly tremulous, slightly less bright than normal, few noticed, and those who did - who knew her well - chose not to comment, understanding that some things were not meant to be discussed in such a public forum.

The remaining diners - the individuals for whom this meal was much more than just another holiday celebration - lingered longer and ate more. For some of them, this might be the only meal they would have today. Or tomorrow for that matter. So they stayed, and filled their plates and savored the warmth of the room and the kindness of those around them and the wonderful aromas of the feast. And then they filled their plates again, and when they could eat no more without risking sickness, they were surprised and delighted to find that wait staff had passed by and deposited stacks of go-boxes on their tables.

So perhaps this would not be their only meal today.

They didn't say much, beyond murmurs of thanks, but they all turned to gaze at the petite woman standing near the doorway, and what they could not express in words was there to read in their eyes. From the tall, angular old Viet Nam veteran with scars on his face and neck, to the youngest of the children - a little Latino girl with huge, dark eyes who walked with a decided limp; from the harried mother of three, with haggard face and work-roughened hands, to the young, black teen-ager, with shoulder blades as sharp as knives and shadows of fear in his dark eyes - all looked at Nora Walker and spoke their gratitude without ever actually saying a word.

And Nora noticed, even though she had something else on her mind. Something huge and frightening and dark.

She did not know where Scotty had gone, or why, but she was certain of one thing. Whatever it was that had sent her son-in-law racing out of the restaurant without a word of explanation, it had something to do with Kevin. Nothing else made any sense at all. But what could it be? What had he seen or heard or . . .

She wasn't alone in her pondering. The only section of the room that was unnaturally quiet was the large table in the back corner where the Walker clan had gathered. They had talked for a while, expressing their worries. They had gone silent as they'd seen Michelle McGregor make her exit after denying any knowledge of the reason for Scotty's abrupt departure, and then, with Kitty commenting first, they'd all agreed that they did not believe her. She had known; it had been there in her eyes; it had been proven by the fact that she did not make a fuss over being denied more time with Daniel, but she had refused to share it.

Thus, though reluctantly, they had all reached the same conclusion and allowed themselves to speak the name that they almost never spoke any more, because the speaking was too painful.

Kevin. It must all come back to Kevin.

What had he done?

When three hours had passed, and Scotty had not reappeared, nor answered repeated calls to his cell phone, Kitty sighed. Evan and Daniel had grown increasingly grumpy and resentful, tiring from the long day, and she knew she had delayed as long as she could. She had not been idle during those hours, having dispatched members of her security team to scout the area and see if they could learn anything, but to no avail. Scotty had vanished, and no one knew why.

"Uncle Saul," she said finally, rising from the table, and realizing that she couldn't remember whether she had eaten or not, "do you have keys to the apartment? The boys . . ."

"I'll take them upstairs, Aunt Kitty." That was Paige, who was looking a bit tired herself. She had worked hard throughout the day, sharing the responsibilities for the managing the charitable effort, but it had come at a cost, especially after Scotty's departure. "Come on, Cooper. You can help me get the boys settled, and then we'll find a good movie to watch."

Cooper, more than ready to get away from the table, was nonetheless entirely aware of his uncle's taste in films. "It better not be _Breakfast at Tiffany's_ ," he muttered.

"Not to worry," said a weary voice from the doorway to the kitchen. "Got _Merlin_ on Netflix."

"Scotty!" It was Nora who saw him first, even though she was all the way across the restaurant, and her voice was as sharp as a freshly-honed blade, causing everyone in the room to pause and look up at her. There was no mistaking the note of panic in that single word.

She was across the room and engulfing him in her arms before anyone else had time to react at all.

"Scotty, what in the world were you thinking? What did you . . ."

"I'm sorry," he murmured, barely loud enough for her to hear. "I should have told you. I should have, but . . . I thought I'd be quick enough. I thought . . ."

When he fell silent, and felt himself immediately engulfed by the arms of the entire Walker family, he went to his knees, with Nora and Justin following him down, refusing to let him go, but it was Kitty who knelt before him and braced his face with her hands, simultaneously brushing away the tears that were welling in his eyes.

"What happened, Scotty? What did you see that . . ."

"Not what," he whispered. "Who? And you don't really have to ask, do you? Don't you know?"

"Paige," said Nora suddenly, firmly, "take the boys upstairs. Someone will be up shortly."

"But . . ." Paige had never argued with her grandmother in her life, but she was unwilling to be dismissed from this conversation. 

"Paige," interrupted Sarah, "go. Now. I'll be up in a minute. I promise."

The group waited in silence, as the children made their way to the stairs. At the same time, the crowd in the restaurant, realizing that what was happening among the Walkers was not something for public consumption - no matter how curious everyone might be - resumed their soft buzz of conversation, and Nora - perceptive as always - wondered briefly if her highborn society acquaintances would have been as courteous.

"You saw Kevin," Kitty breathed finally, barely able to form the words. "Didn't you?"

Scotty nodded.

"Where? What was he . . ."

"Across the street," Scotty replied. "He was just standing there. Watching." His breath was suddenly harsh, halting. "Watching me holding our little boy, and talking to Michelle."

Everyone paused and spent a moment thinking about what he'd said, about what Kevin had seen . . . and about how he must have interpreted it.

"Oh, my God!" That was Sarah, barely able to speak around the solid mass of pain in her chest. "He must have . . . Oh, my God!"

"Where did he go, Scotty?" Justin's voice was firm, and it was obvious that he was suppressing his own dismay over what his brother might have thought or felt. 

"He . . . he was on a motorcycle, and he just . . . He tore out of that lot like a bat out of hell. But I thought . . . I thought I could catch him. I . . . I don't even remember how I managed to get through the traffic, but I did. I made it to the freeway faster than I ever have before, but . . . I couldn't find him. I didn't know which way to go, so I just . . . I tried every direction. I looked everywhere." He looked up then, directly into Nora's eyes. "He was just gone. I drove and drove and finally, I parked at a spot near the freeway entrance ramp, thinking that I'd see him if he went by. But he didn't. He never came, Nora."

He closed his eyes then, new tears beading his lashes. "He was just gone. My God, Nora. The look in his eyes. I'll never forget the look in his eyes, like . . . like he was watching the end of the world. Jesus Christ, what have I done?"

"Scotty," said Nora, infinitely gentle despite the heaviness in her own heart, "you've done nothing wrong. He just . . . he doesn't understand. If he did, if he knew . . ."

"Don't you get it, Nora? He thinks I've moved on. He thinks that Michelle and I did this to him."

"No. He doesn't. He wouldn't."

"You didn't see his face." There was absolute certainty in Scotty's voice. And absolute hopelessness.

"You were gone so long, we were worried that something happened to you," said Saul, still reeling from the emotional trauma of realizing how close Kevin had been - and how far he was now.

Scotty nodded. "When I finally got to the point of realizing that there was no point in waiting, I got blocked in by a swarm of police cars and an ambulance. Something bad must have happened up Fair Oaks Avenue. It took forever to get out of the traffic jam and back here.

"I'm sorry I worried you all. I just couldn't . . . I couldn't take the time to tell you, and then . . . then I didn't know how to face you."

He turned then to face Nora directly. "He's gone, Nora, and this time . . . this time, I don't think he's coming back."

"No!" It was Kitty that spoke, her voice filled with determination. "I won't accept that. You said he was on a motorcycle. What kind of bike? Did you see a license plate?"

But Scotty was shaking his head. "It was too fast. By the time, I realized what he was doing, he was already gone. I couldn't . . ."

"Then we'll have to do some digging," she replied. "There are traffic cameras all over the place these days, so there have to be pictures. We just have to find them."

"How?" demanded Sarah. "I mean we can't just walk into police headquarters, and demand . . ."

Kitty's smile was cold. "Who says we can't?"

"Probably, the law does," Justin replied calmly, "but I doubt that's going to stop you."

"Damned straight," said Kitty, and Scotty, still lost in a world of hurt, tried to believe, tried to find some cause for hope in her determination. Tried . . . and failed.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

It was late in the day, and the sea was awash with streaks of molten copper when Chad Barry walked out onto his deck and allowed himself a moment of contemplation.

It had been a lovely holiday. His family had driven down from Bakersfield to spend the day. His mother had insisted on bringing her traditional Thanksgiving meal, and he had not protested too much. He was an international film star and an icon of sophistication, but every man needed comfort food occasionally. Especially when the family had gone through an extremely rough patch on the occasion of the famous actor son's exposure as homosexual.

Both Wayne and Elaine Barry had always been liberal in their politics and social views, but being intellectual supporters of gay rights was entirely different from dealing with a son's outing. They had been shocked at first, and then angry - not because of his sexual orientation but because he had hidden it from them. They'd felt deceived and betrayed.

It had taken a couple of years to mend the rift, and his brother, Jacob, had still not totally forgiven him.

Nevertheless, it had been a good day. Jacob had brought his wife, Melissa, and their twins, Rachel and Rhonda, and the sprawling, ultra-modern beach house had rung with the joyful voices of happy children - a sound that Chad thought he might just enjoy getting used to.

He had never spared much thought about having children, but now . . .

He wondered why the notion of having children made him think about Kevin. And then he smiled as he realized that, today, almost everything made him think of Kevin.

He was not surprised that he had not heard from his old friend. He was pretty sure that, whatever Kevin had encountered when he'd gone to the restaurant owned by his old flame, it had not been pretty. It would be entirely typical of Kevin to nurse his wounds in private. Chad might wish that it were different, but in his heart, he knew the truth. He might want Kevin to turn to him; indeed, he might want much more than that. But it would never be. He had had a chance once, of gaining something that would have been more precious than he could imagine, but he had blown it. It was only now, when it was much too late, that he realized what he had lost.

He would never have what he wanted, but, if Kevin ever needed him, he had only to ask. He could only hope that he would be able to provide whatever his old friend might need.

His family had departed just as the sun approached the horizon, and he had poured out a hefty portion of cognac, anticipating a quiet night and debating whether or not he wanted to spend it alone.

He was still debating when his cell phone rang, and he smiled as he noted the identity of the caller. 

Hope, it seemed, never completely died.

"Hey, Baby," he purred as he thumbed the device. "You okay?"

"Good evening, Sir," said an unfamiliar male voice. Unfamiliar and somehow very formal. "May I ask who I'm speaking to?"

Chad felt his breath catch in his chest. "Not until you tell me who you are, and why you're calling on Kevin's phone."

"Of course, Sir. This is Sgt. Huval, of the Pasadena Police Dept. I'm afraid there's been an incident. And you are?"

"This is Chad Barry. What kind of incident? Is Kevin all right?"

"Sorry, Mr. Barry. I'm calling from the emergency department of Huntington Hospital. We have an injured man here, with no identification on him. We're running his fingerprints and checking with his phone service carrier as we speak, but your number is the only local number on his cell phone, so we thought you might . . ."

"I'm on my way," Chad replied, racing toward the garage. 

"Could you give me his name, Mr. Barry?'

Chad hesitated. "It's complicated," he said finally. "I'll tell you when I get there. But what happened, and how is he?"

The policeman hesitated. "I can't give out any details, Sir. I'm not a doctor, and they haven't given us any official report on his condition. But, if I were you, I'd hurry."

Chad didn't need to be told twice.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Scotty sat in the shadows of the private dining room and told himself that he needed to get up. He needed to move, to get busy, to take care of the thousands of details involved in getting things ready for the next day.

He needed to do something, in order to bring an end to what he was sure would always be remembered as the longest day of his life.

The staff was still clearing up in the kitchen and cleaning the main dining room, but they had all avoided disturbing him, even though there was still work to be done. None of them knew exactly what had happened to him today, but they all seemed to sense that it was something he needed to cope with in private.

The Walkers had departed finally, reluctantly. None of them had wanted to leave him, but he had been adamant in his insistence that he needed time alone. Kitty had agreed to take Daniel home with her, even though one part of Scotty's mind suggested that he might need his son's presence as a comfort against the despair rising within him. But another part - the dominant part - had realized that it would be selfish to keep the child with him in such a dark hour. The baby would not understand his father's sadness, but he might very well sense that something was wrong. Best to spare him that.

He sat looking at the bottle of single malt whiskey that sat - unopened - in front of him. He had been studying it for some time, debating. He didn't drink often, and almost never to excess. But if anyone had ever had sufficient cause for seeking oblivion in a bottle, surely this was such a case.

He reached out to grab the bottle, and picked up a shot glass . . . and his cell phone rang.

He looked at the screen and saw that no caller identity was shown. 

He would just ignore it. He didn't want to talk to anyone anyway.

Anyone except . . .

He looked at the phone again and tried not to allow himself to acknowledge the tiny glimmer of hope that sparked in his mind. Surely it was not possible. He should just ignore it. But what if . . .

"Hello." His response was barely audible.

"You better come to Huntington Hospital," said a brusque, vaguely familiar voice. "Better come right now."

Scotty stood quickly, his heart suddenly thumping in his chest. "Who is this, and why should I . . ."

"It's Chad Barry. And if you ever loved him, even a little bit, you better hurry. You might not have much time."

Scotty didn't argue, didn't question further; there was no need. Barry's voice said it all.

As he ran for the door, a stray thought bolted through his mind. One should never assume that he had endured the worst thing that could happen.

There was always the possibility of something more, something too horrible to bear. He raced to the car, praying with every fiber of his being that he was not about to face the one thing he knew he could not survive.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

 

It was a holiday, which meant that many people were not at work. Which meant that many of those were celebrating, and that a large percentage of the celebrants were drinking to enhance their enjoyment of the day.

Which, of course, meant that emergency rooms across the country were busier than usual, even on a day which was traditionally devoted to family gatherings.

The parking lot was crowded; the emergency waiting room was even more crowded as Scotty raced through the doors and headed for the front desk.

There was a line. Of course, there was.

Luckily - or not, depending on how you looked at it - he didn't have to wait his turn. Chad Barry was standing in an adjacent hallway, obviously waiting for him, and the look on his face only served to intensify the fear that was gnawing away in Scotty's belly.

"Where is he?"

Barry shook his head. "Not here. Come with me."

"I have to call his family. I have to . . ."

Barry hustled him up a nearby escalator and down a hallway into a restricted area, where machines beeped and flashed and hummed, where medical staff scurried about, and a nurse at the central desk spoke into a handset while motioning for them to proceed.

"Already done. The cops took care of that. They're on their way, probably with a police escort, if Kitty has anything to say about it."

Scotty jerked to a halt, suddenly rigid and unable to take another step. "Tell me," he said, his voice rough and harsh. "What happened? Where is he?"

The actor took a deep breath. "Somebody tried to kill him, and . . . there's no knowing whether or not they succeeded. He's in a coma, and the doctors are not saying much. Maybe they'll tell you, since you are - technically - his husband."

"How did you find out?"

"The cops called me. My number was on his cell."

Scotty stared at him and had no trouble identifying the loathing in his eyes. "You knew. You knew he was coming. Why didn't you . . ."

"Let's get something straight, Boytoy," snapped Barry. "I didn't do this for you. For all I care, you and your little girlfriend can rot in hell and deserve every minute of it. You betrayed him; you gave up something that most of us would give everything for, so I don't give a damn that you might want to be at his bedside now. But he would. He'd want you here, so I called you. Even though he may never know, he still has the right . . . "

Scotty felt something break inside him as the realization hit him. "You told him. You told him about Daniel. That's why . . ."

"Didn't he have the right to know?" There was not the slightest hint of apology in the man's tone.

Scotty stiffened and felt his hands clench into fists. "He had a right to know the truth - a truth you don't have a clue about. This . . ." He had to stop to swallow the rage rising within him. "This is your doing. You should have asked me. And now . . ."

"Now what?" the actor demanded. "I don't know what happened. I only know he was going to see you, to find out the truth. He left this morning, on his way to you, and then this."

"He stayed with you?" 

Barry's eyes were filled with ice. "What? You think you have the right to be jealous? Well, fuck you, you little hypocrite. Apparently, his vows still mean something to him, even if yours don't. 

"He slept in my house, and then he left. The next thing I know is the cops are calling to tell me they found him beaten and bleeding out on his father's grave, and nobody saw a damned thing. Hell, if some young woman hadn't just lost her husband two days ago and wanted to put flowers on his grave for the holiday, it's a pretty good bet that no one would have found him until tomorrow, and then all this would be a moot point. So you want to blame me, you go ahead. But for now, you get your ass in there and be there for him for whatever time he might have left."

He paused then and took a deep, shuddering breath. "Third cubicle on the right. The doctor's with him now, and I . . ." He hesitated, suddenly remembering the other people in Kevin's life, the ones who had been there for him when no one else was, to help him build a new place for himself. "I have some calls to make."

Scotty stood for a moment, frozen with fear, knowing he had to move, knowing he couldn't. But then he did, because he had no choice.

He paused in front of the glass door and forced himself to look, to see what lay before him.

It was a typical ICU cubicle, filled with technology, crowded with monitors and gauges surrounding a state-of-the-art hospital bed. A tall dark-haired doctor, possibly Middle Eastern or Indian by the look of him, was checking vitals and making notes on an electronic pad, as a young nurse worked at cleaning and replacing a bandage on her patient's forehead . But neither of them drew his eyes. It was the figure in the bed who demanded his attention, who took away his breath, who broke his heart.

He was recognizable, but only just. Face distorted and torn, partially covered in bandages, only the hair was virtually unchanged, except for a swath above the left temple which had been cut away to allow stitches. Scotty wondered briefly if he would have been able to recognize Kevin if only the hair were visible. Then he allowed himself a small smile. Of course, he would.

Taking a deep breath, he opened the sliding door and stepped inside.

"How is my husband?" he asked, not allowing any chance for the doctor to evade his question.

The physician, who was, at second glance, younger than he'd first appeared, regarded the new arrival with sympathy. "Good evening, Mr.?"

"Wandell."

"Mr. Wandell, I'm Dr. Nanda."

"How is my husband?" Scotty was not in the mood to be 'handled'.

"I'm afraid his condition is critical. He has suffered massive trauma, including a ruptured spleen, several broken bones, skull fracture and concussion. In addition, he lost a lot of blood. As you can see, he's comatose, and we've done everything we can, for now. We performed emergency surgery to repair as much damage as possible, stop the internal bleeding, and relieve the pressure on the brain. We're still running tests. We'll have to do more scans to determine if there is further damage that we've missed." He paused for a moment to consult his notes. "I wish I could give you better news, but the truth is that we simply don't know enough yet to give you any assurances."

Scotty closed his eyes and tried to absorb what he was hearing. "Can I touch him?"

"Of course." It was the nurse who spoke. She moved aside then, and gestured toward the small stool that sat beside the bed.

Scotty moved forward slowly, and stood for a moment gazing down at the face of the man who had been the possessor of his heart for as long as he could remember. "Will he hear me if I talk to him?" he asked.

The doctor sighed. "No one knows for sure. Some think so; others doubt it. But it can't do any harm, and it may offer some comfort."

He did not specify who would be comforted - speaker or listener - but it was hardly necessary for him to do so.

"Can I stay with him?"

"For a while," said the nurse, even though it was technically a violation of the visitor's rules. "If you could give us the names of his regular physicians so we could request his medical history, it would be helpful."

"Of course," Scotty answered absently. "His mother is on her way here. She'll probably know more about that than I do." His smile was bittersweet. "Mothers usually do, don't they?"

"I'll get the forms," she replied and made her exit.

"When will we know?" Scotty asked, not sure he wanted to know but certain that he had to ask anyway.

"Hard to say," answered Dr. Nanda. "Probably twenty-four to forty-eight hours. But it could be longer."

With infinite gentleness, Scotty leaned forward and threaded his fingers through thick dark curls above Kevin's right ear. "Or it could be less," he whispered. "They don't know you, Love. They don't know how tough you are, or how hard you can fight, or how you can stand against the world when you need to. But I know. And I know this. For now and forever, you're my heart. No matter what you think you've learned, no matter how hurt you've been, you must know this. I can't live without you. No matter what else is in my life, you are what makes living worthwhile, so please, Kevin. Please, don't leave me. I need you more than you can ever know."

He sank to his knees then, wrapping his hands around Kevin's left one, which was the only one not swathed in bandages.

"Please."

Touched despite a determination to maintain a professional demeanor, the doctor left the room.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

TBC


End file.
